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divine-mistake · 3 years

Text

it's messy inside, let me take your coat

Summary: “I can make you a drink,” you offer, leaning against the doorframe to your bedroom with your arms crossed over your chest, staring at him, “or I can come over there and you can kiss me drunk instead, ‘cause I’m already halfway there.”

Characters: Bucky Barnes/Plus-sized (f)Reader

Warnings: 18+ (mentions of smut, female nudity), strong language, alcohol consumption, copious amounts of fluff, soft and nervous Bucky Barnes, original female character friends, one-night stand, body insecurity, anxiety

Word Count: 8723

A/N: This story was written for @eurynome827 and her 2k follower challenge with the prompt "Mimosas and Bloody Marys at brunch." Thank you for hosting and congrats again on your milestone!

main masterlist | AO3

“Cheers!”

The flutes clink together, orange juice sloshing and spilling and dripping down the glasses and onto the table as your giggles fade into the background noise of the café’s patio. You tip your head back as you drink, mimosas bubbly in your throat like your own happiness, threatening to pour out of you and dribble onto your shirt, already tipsy.

“God,” Carissa says, throwing herself back into the metal chair, “I cannot wait to have his babies.”

Beside her, Kora claps. “I can’t wait to be an aunt! I’m going to spoil them all so rotten you’re going to want to throttle me by the end of it.”

“Spoil them all you want, I’m having eight of ‘em.”

At that, you go ahead and polish off your drink, carbonation stinging your throat, and while you set the empty glass down your hand goes up in the air, signaling the waiter for another.

Sara points at you. “I’m with her.” She makes a face at Carissa. “If you have eight kids I will make like your dad and bounce.”

Kora slaps her on the knee but the four of you descend into laughter anyway, and it’s easy and light and beautiful, like always. Washington D.C. can be pretty in this way—iron-wrought fencing and fancy metal tables and red patio tiling. Good food, better mimosas, best friends. There’s a breeze in the air that’s calling for autumn, scattering cloth napkins sitting in laps and spreading the scent of fresh baked bread.

The bags at your feet carrying your new shoes for the winter wedding that’s approaching rustle. That feeling isn’t just D.C. It’s excitement and love and adoration, too.

Carissa, bride to be, catches you in her gaze. “When are you going to finally settle down, huh?” She gestures across the table at you with her half-filled mimosa. Everyone else looks at you too, waiting for your response.

You shrug. “You’re having plenty of babies, I don’t need any.”

“I don’t mean babies,” she says. “I mean a human, a connection, something that isn’t an empty apartment.”

“You need—no, you deserve—someone to take care of you!” Kora adds. “You’re always taking care of everyone. Don’t you want someone to, y’know, take care of you?”

“I have plenty of vibrators in my empty apartment.”

Sara snorts, covering her mouth. The waiter delivers another round, thank god.

“What do you want me to say?” you ask, sighing. “You’re just bothering me ‘cause it’s wedding season and you want to set me up with your weird—”

“He’s not weird,” Carissa interrupts. “He’s tall and he’s mysterious which is exactly your type.”

“She’ll find someone when the time is right,” Sara says. “Just ‘cause we’re happy with our boyfriends doesn’t mean she needs one to be happy.”

“Thank you, Sara, my one-true-best-friend-in-the-whole-wide-world.” You force your glass against hers in a loud clank, turning the heads of all the patrons on the café’s patio before taking a gulp. Your face is already getting a little hot, the alcohol hitting you. This is why you aren’t allowed to pregame before you go to brunch anymore.

“We’re not trying to force you,” Kora starts, but her mouth is pulled into a concerned frown. “We really do just want you to be as happy as we are, that’s all.”

You smile at her. “I know.”

And you do know. You understand. It’s been years now since you’ve had anything real—anything worthwhile, to be specific. At some point, the relationships slowed down. Boyfriends became friends with benefits when you were working on your masters. Friends with benefits became ignored booty calls at two in the morning when you started your dissertation, on the road to get your doctorate. Now, you’re lucky to go home with someone from the bar, and they never, ever, come home with you.

It’s okay. You aren’t lonely. The right person just hasn’t landed in your lap, and maybe that’s kind of because it’s not open, but it’s just ‘cause you’re busy. You’re busy. Passionate. Need to change the world.

Love can wait.

The next mimosa is finished and you’re feeling a little fuzzy.

“I’m happy for you,” you tell Carissa. “I’m happy for all of you, and I’m happy with my life, and I’m happy that we’re all together and we’re celebrating and I’m happy that you all care about me enough to worry but I’m perfectly fine with how things are.”

Carissa smiles, but it’s got too much teeth. “I could set you up with Kie—”

“No, no setting me up with Kieran or Harry or Josh or anyone. But especially not Kieran.”

You’d already fucked him once and it wasn’t worth the experience.

“Fine! Fine.” Carissa busies herself with her drink. “No setting you up with Kieran.”

“Good. Now let’s talk about the reception!” You pull out your phone and open the planning spreadsheet, smiling. “So I called the venue for you about the tables…”

This is easier. Planning Carissa’s wedding, helping support her, being excited for her—that’s easier than talking about your love life. If anything, this is your love life. Taking care of the people you love, your best friends, having fun and being together and romanticizing the time you spend with them. It’s not just mimosas over brunch and a green spreadsheet for wedding planning. With them, it’s the wind in your hair and the sun making your eyes sparkle and the alcohol making all your insides feel effervescent.

It’s love. It’s perfection. It’s your own brand of happiness.

And sure, maybe it’s a little defensive, but this is easier than loving someone and trying to make them love you. It’s easier.

“Whose dress are we still waiting on?” Carissa asks a little later, mouth full of avocado and bacon and looking very un-bridely.

“Mine,” Kora says, a little guiltily. “It’s at the tailor getting taken in—again.”

“I have mine,” you pipe up, wiping your mouth of jam. “And god, do I look like a full course Michelin star meal in that piece. Like, we’re talking ass for days, legs for days, tits for—”

“Excuse me, ma’am, excuse me.” A man, towering over the café table makes himself known, dressed in dark clothes and wearing a look on his visage that you can’t name.

“—days,” you finish, swallowing hard.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to interrupt,” he says with a smile, “but I’m raising money for uh, breast cancer awareness, and I was hoping you would donate and sign up for uh, a marathon we’re doing.”

You blink. “Sorry,” you tell him, “but we don’t carry cash on us.” With a small smile, you nod at him, your eyes passing over your friends and looking around the café to see if any of the other patrons have noticed what’s going on. None of them look bothered.

“Not even for breast cancer awareness? C’mon, girl.”

“We don’t carry cash,” Sara repeats with a deadpan, but her eyes don’t meet his.

He doesn’t look at her either, content to stare at you, and your skin crawls.

“What about signing up for the marathon?”

“Fine,” you snap. Anything to get him to leave you all alone. “How do I sign up?”

“You give me your phone number and I’ll text you the details.” His grin is a little wider now, edging a little closer to where you sit at the table. You’re regretting that third mimosa. You aren’t on your game. The panic running through you is covered in a champagne haze.

You scoff. “No way.” Immediately you grab your purse, digging through it, and you slam a handful of loose change onto the table in front of him. “Here—a donation. Now please leave.”

His face twists into a scowl, but he scoops the money off the table and pockets it.

“You don’t have to be such a bitch,” he suddenly says, and anger courses through you until you shoot up from your seat, chair skidding behind you. He’s tall—much taller than your short stature. But, fuck it, the alcohol’s dimming the fear and fueling the need for you to protect your friends.

When you glance over, Carissa is already gathering the bags, eyes wide. Kora has her arms wrapped around her middle, trying to make herself smaller, ready to run. Sara’s phone is in her hand, 9-1-1 already dialed.

And still, no one in the café is doing a goddamn thing.

“Excuse me?” You glare up at the man.

“I just wanted your number, you fat bitch.” He sneers. “No wonder you’ve got an attitude, you obviously don’t get laid.”

Really, you can sit there and say it isn’t the fat comment. It’s not the insult. You’re used to that, with your overly-generous curves and your soft jawline and the fact that you’re wearing a skirt showing off the cellulite running through your thighs like a creek and a crop top that lets everyone peek at your stretch marks. You’re used to it.

And, really, you could handle this better. You certainly have before ‘cause this isn’t the first time you’ve been hustled or the first time some creep has hit on you. Old men have been slapping your ass in public since you were sixteen. You’re hot, you get it. If you saw yourself on the street you’d want a piece of your own goddamn ass, too. It comes with the territory, but it’s gross. And it’s sad but you’re used to it. So it’s not him calling you a fat bitch.

It’s the comment about getting laid. It’s sore as fuck.

You grab your would-be fourth mimosa and drench him in it, the glass slipping from your fingers and shattering upon the patio’s tiled floor in an instant.

“Slut!” The man lunges for you and you jump away, bumping into the table and losing your footing. You fall to the ground as glass comes crashing down around you, spilling sweet-smelling alcohol all over you. Ouch. Your friends scream, but you can’t take your eyes off him.

And then a gleam of black and gold blurs past you and grabs the creep by his neck, throwing him down. Now, a tall, wide body dressed in a dark hoodie is blocking you, guarding you, sheltering you.

“Try it,” Mystery Savior says.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” Carissa chants, calling your name.

Your hand is sticky when you wave her away. “Get out of here, I’m fine. Just go. I’ll meet you—meet you at Kora’s.”

“We’re not leaving you!” Sara shouts, but something, maybe adrenaline or fear or fucking champagne, is running through your blood vessels at high speed.

“Just go!” you scream back at her. “I’m not fucking kidding, go!”

Because if there is one redeemable thing about you, it’s the length you’ll go to keep the people you love safe. And Mystery Savior might have just choked a creep out for you, but he also choked a creep out for you, and that’s enough to get your heart pounding in your ears. You don’t know who the good guy is—if there even is a good guy here.

“Fuck,” the creep curses, but it comes out raspy as he grasps at his quickly bruising neck. “You’re a—” he wheezes, “—you’re a murderer!”

Mystery Savior holds up his hands, and that’s when you see it. The black and gold of a vibranium arm just peeking out of the sleeve of his hoodie.

This isn’t a murderer. Not a Mystery Savior either. This is James Bucky Barnes, the Avenger, holy shit. Definitely good guy. Probably. He’s reformed, the news talks about it.

“Caught me,” he says, voice monotone. “What are you gonna do about it?”

If you weren’t currently sprawled on the ground, covered in mimosa, and panicking wildly about whatever is unfolding right in front of you, the very buzzed part of your brain would really appreciate the smoothness of Bucky’s voice when he said that, the cool, calm, collected delivery.

You’ll file it in the back of your mind for when you go back to your empty apartment.

“That fat ass ain’t worth it,” the creep chokes out, scrambling to get up. As soon as he’s on his feet, poised to take off, Bucky moves faster than you could have imagined and grabs the guy by his shirt.

“I don’t think so, buddy.” You can’t see his face, but you think Bucky might be smiling.

A portly man, a little shorter than Bucky, pushes through the gathering crowd, eyes wide and panicked, face red, already sweating. When you glance at his golden nametag, it reads: Jason, Manager. Cool that the manager showed up this late. If Bucky hadn’t stepped in, you’d probably be in a pile of limbs on the ground by now. Also—is he going to comp your bill? ‘Cause at this point, you’re starting to think you deserve it.

Okay, not a good time to be distracted.

“Thank you for getting him, sir,” the manager says, a little breathless. “Winter Soldier, sir.”

“It’s Bucky,” he says, and then he shoves the creep toward the manager. “Not sure why you didn’t step in before he got violent.”

Exactly! Why did everyone just stand around and do nothing as some six-foot man hustled the four women sitting beside the street? You glance around again, seeing your friends have disappeared and now, both the wait staff and other café patrons, are crowded around your table. It’s a little unsettling how no one cared to even look at you until everything escalated.

As the manager grabs the creep and hauls him off toward the street to wait for the cops, Bucky Barnes relaxes his shoulders and turns toward you slowly, and it’s—well, for lack of a better word—it’s beautiful. He’s beautiful.

He looks nothing like the superhero in the pictures. Here, with the D.C. sun hitting him unabashedly, his slate eyes like glass marbles, the lines surrounding them wrinkled in concern, his tongue darting between his lips to wet the skin where his teeth bite down, a habitual sore, his short locks ruffled by the breeze or maybe the fight or maybe he just wakes up perfectly rumpled, here he looks like a man.

“You okay?” he asks, somehow nonchalant and still worried, and he holds out a calloused hand to you.

Or, well, maybe Bucky had been watching. And maybe that’s enough.

God, you don’t even know this man outside of his Avenger persona, the headlines you read on the news, the pictures you see on social media, but there’s just something about him that makes you want to trust him. Like he guarantees safety, and you know that no one, least of all an Avenger, can guarantee safety. Even if that’s their job.

Stop feeling safe around him.

But you take his hand anyway, his long, thick fingers folding over your own like he means to swallow them, and Bucky pulls you up as though you weigh nothing. In fact, he does it so easily that you crash straight into him with a yelp and his arms instantly slide around your waist to catch you as your knees go weak, buckling beneath you.

When you look up at him, your hands trying to find purchase in the material of his hoodie, he’s staring down at you with the hint of a smile.

“Thanks,” you say, quiet and a little stunned.

His lips crack a little wider. “No problem.”

For a few seconds longer than deemed socially appropriate, you stare at Bucky, captured by the changing color of his blue-gray eyes. And then, as if god is slapping you on the back of your head, you blink and remember that you are covered in alcohol and currently pressed against the chest of a superhero, and your eyes go wide as you quickly push away from him.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” you tell him. “I’m disgusting—you probably have orange juice all over you now, fuck.”

“Hey,” he says, his flesh hand wrapping around your upper arm to steady you, “it’s okay. Seriously though, are you alright?”

You open your mouth to say something and then shut it again when you realize nothing sounds like the right answer. Bucky waits patiently though, peering down at you, his grip a little more grounding than you wish it was.

“Yes?” you say, but it sounds like a question. “I mean, maybe? I’m—It’s not like I’m not used to this happening. I’ll be fine.”

Bucky frowns. “Used to it?”

You shrug. “Not all men are superheroes. Most don’t have good intentions. And I’m not even that pretty, can you imagine what other women deal with?”

It slips out before you realize it, the self-hatred you keep at bay.

“Not pretty?” Bucky’s face twists into something confused. “That guy assaulted you just to get your number. I’m not saying it’s right, but if you think you aren’t pretty, well that’s just wrong.”

Oh god, what are you supposed to say now? So stupid. If you had just kept your mouth shut, you wouldn’t have forced an Avenger—a really fucking hot Avenger—to give you an awkward compliment and now you have to scramble to figure out what to say. If you deny the compliment, you’ll look ungrateful. If you accept the compliment, that’s too egotistical. Too into yourself.

You’ve backed yourself into a corner here, and Bucky’s on the other side of the ring.

“Look,” he interrupts your inner monologuing, running a hand through his hair and glancing away, “if you don’t mind me saying it, you’re—well—you’re gorgeous. I hope you know that.”

Your mouth falls open and you stare at him, nervous energy radiating off him, and when his eyes shift back to yours he coughs.

“I mean, don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not—I’m not trying to hit on you after what just happened, I promise.” His eyes go wide, then, and he throws his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. “That’s not to say I’m not! Not hitting on you. I mean, shit, I just think you’ve gotta be the most beautiful dame—woman, sorry—that I’ve seen in years.”

There’s something soft about it, something sweetly suffocating, like buttercream frosting in the back of your throat, about his nervousness. The gentle panic, the way his eyes go back and forth from the ground at your feet to your eyes like he’s checking to make sure he hasn’t said the wrong thing, but he just keeps putting his foot in his mouth like it’s a magnet to metal. It’s endearing. It’s real.

“Do you want to get a drink with me?” you blurt out, and Bucky blanches. “I know it’s only, like, noon but I need a drink. And I owe you. For saving me.”

He relaxes at this, another one of those small smiles easing its way onto his face, and his shoves his hands into his pockets like he wasn’t just panicking two seconds ago about calling you a dame, which if anyone else had done, you would have socked them in the mouth, but he’s like one-hundred-and-six or something and you kinda get it.

“The drinks you’re wearing ain’t enough, doll?”

A laugh breaks from your mouth and he lights up, grinning.

“Oh, that’s how it’s gonna be?” You can’t help the smile splitting your own lips. “Sure, make fun of the girl who just got hustled, easy prey.”

The way he looks at you is burning.

“I’m Bucky,” he says. “James Bucky Barnes.”

“I know,” you say with a laugh. When you give him your name, he almost looks like he wants to try it out, but he keeps it on his tongue like he’s tasting it instead.

“So, a drink?” he asks, a little cautiously.

“I’d like that.” Then, you look down and curse. “But I’m gross. I really need to go home and change.”

Bucky nods, but a look of disappointment crosses his face, there and then gone again, just enough to make your heart tighten into a painful brick weight atop your chest. Everything in your brain is saying no, don’t do it, don’t do it. But your heart hurts and it hurts for him, a man you’ve only met in news articles and awkward interviews until now, when he’s saved you from being slapped around by some creep or worse, and god, you have such a soft heart sometimes and it’s gotten you in trouble before but you can’t just ignore it.

“Do you like Bloody Marys?”

His eyes meet yours again and you’re drawn into the storm that swirls in his irises once again.

“Never had one,” he admits. “They don’t look much like a drink.”

“Well, if you’re interested, I have the stuff to make a really good one at home. And then I could change and clean up a little and still y’know, thank you for saving my life? I mean it’s not much, but—”

“Yes,” he says, his voice as sure and steady as it was earlier when he was in hero mode. “That sounds great.”

Oh, you’re fucked. You’re so fucked.

The walk back to your apartment isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s not easy. Bucky walks beside you like a forcefield, using his body to guide you through the throng of people walking along the streets without even touching you. He reminds you of a sheepdog. The thought almost makes you laugh more than a few times during your stroll.

He walks with his hands in his pockets most of the way, especially his metal one. And he isn’t much of a talker, not that you mind as long as he keeps answering the questions you’re asking him, like what kind of food he likes and what he thinks about sphynx cats and if he likes memes—of which his answers consist of anything, what the hell is that and why is it naked, and a resounding yes.

Bucky asks some of his own questions, though they are few and far between and a lot more cohesive and meaningful than your own. He asks about how long you’ve lived in Washington D.C., about what you do for a living, and about your friends.

“Why did they leave you there?” He’s staring at you when he asks, brows sharp and furrowed.

“Because I told them to,” you answer. “I didn’t want them to get hurt or anything. And I’m kind of the person that if I’m yelling, you better listen ‘cause I’m usually yelling for a good reason.”

He nods like he understands, but his lips are pressed flat. “They shouldn’t have left you.”

You shrug. “I wanted them to. I would’ve been more pissed if they hadn’t run off and gotten tangled up in the middle of everything.”

“You’re a good person,” he says, still looking at you. His face is softer, that hint of a curve in his mouth the only sign that anything’s changed.

You give him your own smile. “Maybe.”

It’s only once you get to the front door of your apartment that things shift and your stomach rolls, heavy and fluttering light all at once, a not-so-familiar-anymore anxiety chilling your skin. The keys in your hand jingle and you aren’t sure if it's because your fingers are shaking or not.

“It’s not much,” you say, beckoning him inside, “but y’know, it’s enough for me.”

Bucky steps through the door with a reverence, a caution, a carefulness that strikes you right in the heart. He looks out of place for a minute, like he’s never entered an apartment before. And then, as you kick off your shoes, losing the extra inch of height, smiling and gesturing for him to do the same, there’s something in him that snaps and bends and his shoulders fall, relaxed.

He toes off his boots, leaving them by the door, and suddenly there’s a different air in the apartment. Almost intimate. Comfortable.

Stop it. You don’t even know him.

“Make yourself at home. Can I get you anything? A glass of water or something?”

Bucky shakes his head as he follows behind you, slowly, his eyes roaming over your space. It’s really not much, you know that. A little more than a box with a bathroom and a bedroom attached, what with the living room and the kitchen being “open-concept,” a word you’re pretty sure was invented to sell tiny apartments for more money. You don’t even have a table to sit at—just a couch to plunk down on while you’re eating.

“I’m alright, doll,” he says, running a hand over the soft cushions of said couch. “You go change, I’m fine.”

As soon as you disappear into your bedroom, the door locked behind you, you lean against the wood and let out a sigh. This is awkward. What the fuck were you thinking? Asking an Avenger—Bucky Barnes—back to your apartment for a drink? A bloody mary? Who are you trying to kid?

It’s been years, literal years since you’ve invited anyone back to your apartment. In fact, you don’t think anyone besides your friends has even stepped foot inside. Maybe they haven’t even made it to the door.

Why would you invite him here?

In frustration, you strip your dirty shirt off and throw it onto the floor, shimmy-ing out of your skirt and kicking it toward the hamper just as well. You sort through your drawers, looking for something comfortable to throw on. Or maybe you should wear something nice? Something that looks similar to what you wore to brunch. But Bucky’s dressed in jeans and a hoodie. But he also looks like a modern god in just that.

Fuck. You are fucked. Why did you ask him back to your place for a drink? What did you think would happen?

You throw an old band t-shirt over your head and pull a black pair of loose shorts up over your hips, cursing when you realize they don’t even hit mid-thigh. Does that seem suggestive? Is Bucky going to think you want to fuck him if you walk out in these?

Do you want to fuck Bucky?

No. No. This is not what this is about. You invited him over because you owed him a drink and because you needed to change and because he seemed so damn sad when you said you couldn’t go out for a drink. So you asked him to come home with you. Oh, god, that’s so complicated. What have you gotten yourself into?

Stop. Just stop thinking.

But—you have to admit it to yourself—you want it. You want him.

Your friends’ earlier words repeat in your head. A human, a connection, something that isn’t an empty apartment. They aren’t wrong for thinking that it’s something you want. For most of your life, you’ve lived thinking that you shouldn’t need someone. But isn’t it okay to want someone? You’re tired of being alone. Bucky Barnes is the first man that’s been in your empty apartment since you moved in, and maybe it’s a bold move, but you know what?

You throw yourself out of your bedroom, probably looking a little too frazzled, and you quickly comb your fingers through your hair as nonchalantly as possible to fix the flyaways. Bucky’s sitting on your couch, looking lonely, his hands rigid on his spread knees.

He looks like he fits there, on your sofa, in your empty apartment.

“Look,” you say in a breath, catching his attention. When he looks at you, his eyes sweep over your body like he’s never seen a woman before; shy, timid, a little nervous, but there’s something else there. It’s the same thing that’s heating your insides right now.

“I can make you a drink,” you offer, leaning against the doorframe to your bedroom with your arms crossed over your chest, staring at him, “or I can come over there and you can kiss me drunk instead, ‘cause I’m already halfway there.”

Bucky’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then a cocky grin is curling his lips up, his face brightening the entire apartment. You don’t know if your body is warm because you’re embarrassed at your own daring or because Bucky Barnes is so beautiful it’s criminal, but you know that there’s static and stretch in your limbs and desire pooling in your belly. Liquor and lust are chasing away whatever fears you had before.

“Really?” he asks, but there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that reminds you of what a fucking flirt he is, or that he can be, and you think butterflies might be taking up residence in your tummy.

“Really,” you mimic, wearing your own charmed smile. Bucky lets his head fall to the side as he looks over you, then crooks one metal finger at you, beckoning you to join him on the couch. With as much confidence as you can muster, you stride toward him, putting a little swing in your steps. Maybe you look crazy doing it, but it’s enough that his eyes flicker down to watch your hips, and it sends a thrill through you.

“This isn’t like me,” you tell him as you sink down beside him, as close as possible while still giving him space to bolt if he needs to. “I don’t invite strangers over to my house like this.”

He smiles and it’s warm and big and easy. “I’m glad you did,” he says.

God, his eyes are pretty. “Me too.”

With Bucky’s thigh pressed against yours, his hand resting dangerously close to one of your bare knees, knuckles brushing your skin every time he shifts, you’re melting into his touch and you don’t care. It’s intoxicating—not the alcohol, which you swear should be wearing off by now, but him.

“I don’t do this often,” you say again, like you need to defend your bold behavior.

“Does that mean I’m special?”

“I think so,” you murmur, only loud enough for him to hear being this close.

Kinder than you thought possible, somehow simultaneously suave but still a little nervous, and yet authentic to a fault, Bucky Barnes is a thousand and one contradictions. Nothing like you ever thought he’d be. And maybe that’s what gives you the courage, the thought that someone so hardened could be so soft. That someone who looks like him, chiseled and striking and like a charcoal sketching on stark paper, could turn red at your innuendos and your charmed quips. That there’s a chance he could be attracted to you.

This—This is the connection you’ve been waiting for. The person who makes you feel like this. Tipsy when you shouldn’t be tipsy anymore.

“I know we barely know each other, but I really, really want you, Bucky.”

Your shoulder is pressed to his shoulder, your chest nearing his chest, your chin tipped up to stare at his eyes, his nose, his parted lips. Bucky stares down at you, his Adam’s apple dipping and bobbing as he swallows hard. Your lips curl, threatening to giggle. He’s so damn cute. How can someone like him, an Avenger, a super soldier, look so cute?

But the hand at your knee finally creeps up your skin, his hot palm glossing over your bare thigh, resting a little higher than a friendly touch would go. He presses indents—not too hard, but not too soft—into your plush, silken flesh.

“You do?” he asks, tongue darting out to wet his lip and you want to follow it back into his mouth with your own.

To answer, you push closer, your hand coming up to drape across his neck, a little off-balance as you sit up on your knees.

“Mhm,” you hum, and that’s all he needs to grasp your thigh roughly and drag you over him, seating you upon his lap as a squeak of surprise flies from your lips. His hands fall to your hips as if your body was made for him to hold and suddenly you’re looking down at him and he’s looking up at you instead, and god, he’s staring at you like you’re heaven and earth and everything he ever needed to be saved.

“I want you too,” he says, exhaling as if you’ve stolen all the air in his lungs.

“Then will you finally kiss me?” Your nose brushes his and his breath ghosts over your mouth.

Bucky’s lips surge up to meet yours, swallowing the last sounds of your words like it’s the first drink of water he’s had in years, cool and refreshing and tinged with smoke, something uniquely him.

As your hands thread through his short locks, desperate to hold onto him in any way, his fingers begin to curve over your ass. You rock into him, pressing against him harder, sucking at his plush lips as his tongue skims over your top lip until you grant him entry. Bucky kisses like he’s trying to taste every single part of you and it sends waves of pleasure through your belly and to your core, where you grind down until you feel his hardening length beneath you.

Immediately, you start to strip him of his hoodie, divesting him of that layer to feel the soft shirt beneath—but only barely because it’s hell trying to pull his hands away from where they’re touching you.

And he’s touching you everywhere. His fingers roam over every generous piece of your body. The silken planes of your thighs where he’s pushed your shorts up, the wide canyons of your hips, the bumpy hills of your waist where your stomach is too big and too soft and where he slips his mismatched hands under your shirt to trace the lines of your stretch marks. It isn’t long until he brushes by the band of your bra and then he’s tugging at the hem of the shirt, pulling away from your lips long enough to rid you of it.

You take the moment to rid him of his too, and then you’re both topless, still sitting atop his lap and panting from lack of air. No words are shared between you before Bucky is capturing your mouth again. It’s only passion, frenzied and hot and wanting.

His fingers fumble with the hooks of your bra blindly as your teeth sink into his bottom lip, nipping and giggling and tangling your tongue around his. As soon as you hear the snap, you lean back and Bucky pulls it off you, flinging the offending garment somewhere else in the apartment.

Now, with your naked chest completely bared to him, you wait for it to happen. For his eyes to dart away, for the apprehension to cross his features, for the disgust to set it. The real reason that it’s been so long since you’ve invited someone into your empty apartment—into your empty life.

You’re scared.

Like you’re expecting the blow, you close your eyes and brace yourself, but you don’t cover up. You’ve learned not to cover up. You refuse to make yourself smaller, or prettier, or more tolerable for people. It’s why you don’t get entangled with one-night stands anymore, why you don’t ask strangers to come home with you, why you don’t let your girlfriends set you up with anyone. Because you refuse to make yourself something you’re not just to fit in, and that’s what always, always ends up happening.

Bucky touches you and it makes you flinch, his vibranium fingers a little chilly against the soft, warm skin of your stomach. He touches you and it’s electric, but you don’t open your eyes.

You’re too afraid to look and see the disappointment in his gorgeous blues.

His hands skim over your rib cage, sliding around the sides of your waist, his thumbs grazing the undersides of your breasts. You shiver at the contact. He continues his trail upwards, but then he lays his palms on your shoulders and caresses over your neck, his fingers finally finding the edge of your soft jaw to cradle your face. A shaky breath leaves you.

“Look at me,” he whispers, closer than you thought.

And no matter how much you’ll berate yourself over it later, there is something so safe about Bucky Barnes that your lashes flutter and your eyes open, and he’s right there, right there in front of you, staring at you with those stormy sea eyes half-lidded and glazed over with lust, his pink lips parted in awe, and you gasp at the intensity that strikes right through the center of you.

“You’re…” he trails off, swallowing nervously again. “Doll, I don’t think I know a word in English that describes you.”

Bucky presses forward, his chest brushing against your hardened nipples, stealing your breath and then sealing your lips with a kiss that isn’t like before. This kiss isn’t needy or wanting or filled with teeth and tongue and desperation. This time, his mouth moves with yours as if he’s trying to spell out a thousand words in twenty different languages to tell you how he feels, his lips leading yours in a dance that isn’t worried about an audience or the music or if you step on his toes.

When he pulls away, you wonder if your mouth is as swollen as his.

“You’re perfect,” he says with a finality in his tone that almost makes you collapse into his arms.

Then, Bucky wastes no time and captures a nipple in between those swollen lips, causing you to let out an embarrassingly loud noise in surprise. His metal hand finds your other breast, thumb stroking over the bud until you’re arching further into him. As his tongue traces patterns around one nipple, his fingers tweak and twist and pull its sister, and your hands grasp his broad shoulders in an attempt to hold on.

Finally, he presses gentle kisses over your rosy buds, all worn out by his touches, and then circles your breasts with more kitten licks and grazes of his teeth. Bucky’s hands settle at your hips again, fingers grasping your skin like he can’t get enough of the feel of you. He’s trying to imprint your body on his palms.

“I need to have you, doll,” he says all breathy as if he isn’t the one absolutely drenched right now. “Please. Please,” he asks so softly that you wonder if this is the man who even came to your rescue today, all tall and brooding. When you grind down on his lap again, feeling his hard cock beneath his jeans as he lets out a groan and tightens his grip on your waist, you realize you’re not the only one feeling the tension.

Still, there’s something cheeky left in you and you reach out to swipe your finger across his nose, effectively booping it cutely. A grin splits your lips.

“You need me?” you ask teasingly. “What if I need you instead?”

It’s like it sets something ablaze in him or something, ‘cause as soon as you go in for another kiss, Bucky stands up from the couch, his hands cradling your ass as you shriek and wrap your legs around him in reflex.

“Oh my god—”

“Now you’ve done it,” he grunts, burying his face in your neck to pepper kisses all over the stretch of skin that encompasses your shoulder, your jawline, even up into your hairline by your ear.

“Oh my god, put me down Bucky, I’m—you’re gonna drop me, I’m too heavy!”

“Heavy?” He chuckles against your throat and the vibrations almost make you shudder in pleasure. God, what is this man doing to you? “Darlin’, I don’t think you know the meaning of heavy.”

Bucky flashes you a wide, almost predatory grin, and you wonder where that soft, nervous boy went.

“If I wanted to,” he says, his voice low and steady, “I could fuck you right here, in the middle of the room, for hours.” He must feel the shiver that goes through your entire body because he’s laughing again. “But I want to fuck you into your mattress if that’s okay. Can I do that?”

Your throat feels dry when you whisper, “Yes. Please.”

He punctuates your plea with a heated kiss to your lips, his tongue tasting the citrus and bubble from your mimosas, the alcohol long since worn off. It’s all him that you feel, all him that intoxicates you, and all him around you as he walks you into your bedroom, not even straining under your weight, and dumps you onto the middle of your sheets.

There, he cages you, hovering above you to kiss down your body, already intent on tearing your shorts off.

“Bucky,” you whine. In the afternoon light streaming through the single window in your room, his eyes are a startling color you wish you could name, all clear and confident and crystal and god, god, his fingers are already exploring the slit of your core so lightly it makes you flush and want to hide, your inner thighs sticky and coated in your own slick from how hot he’s made you with such simple touches.

“You want me?” he asks as if he doesn’t know.

“Yes,” you hiss in pleasure, body writhing beneath him. Bucky leans down to kiss the shell of your ear, his tongue blazing a hot trail that makes you moan and buck your hips up to meet his, but he won’t have any of that.

“Good,” he says, “‘cause I need to have you, and I don’t plan on letting you go ‘till I’ve gotten everything you’ve got to give, doll.”

That nervous Bucky, all awkward smiles and panicked glances and sweet lines, he’s gone. In his place is this Bucky, assured and charming and suave and smooth and making your eyes roll back into your head until a scream is threatening to burst from your lips unless he swallows it with his own kiss, which he does, over and over again.

“I’m gonna ravage you, darlin’.”

You aren’t sure which one you like better—but is it greedy to say both?

As the light of a new day spreads through your apartment, you awaken easily, softly, but painfully. Someone’s pulled the blankets up to your chin and tucked them around you, and the thought leaves an empty feeling inside of you. When you stretch, every part of you burns deliciously, a memory from the hours spent in bed, on the couch, on the fucking counter after you’d eaten and he still wasn’t satisfied, and then again in bed.

And now, looking over at the space beside you, he’s gone. His clothes are gone from the floor. There’s no sound echoing in the building. He even left you tucked in, for god’s sake.

Your apartment is just as it always has been—empty.

With a groan, you kick the covers off and plant your feet on the floor, willing yourself to get up. The ache in your muscles is nothing more than a pleasant memory, an unpleasant reminder of the marks he left on you, his absence.

Stop it. You shouldn’t have even gotten attached to him in the first place. You knew what this was, and he did too, and it’s no wonder he’s gone this morning.

Get over it.

You swipe an oversized shirt from your dresser and throw it over your head as you stride out toward the kitchen, content to go pantyless for the day after the abuse you put it through last night. Yawning, your eyes screwed shut in another big stretch to warm up your overused muscles, you hear him before you see him.

“Mornin’, doll.”

Like that, your eyes snap open and he’s there, standing in your tiny kitchen in nothing but last night’s boxers, looking fucking glorious in the spotlight of the warm sun that’s streaming through the room and highlighting the counters.

“Bucky?” you ask, but it’s a little loud and a little shrieking, something you don’t intend. But all he does is smile at you, metal fingers tapping the plastic countertop, so at ease he just looks like he belongs there.

“I thought I’d make you breakfast but you have nothing in your fridge,” he jokes, leaning back against the drawers and crossing his arms over his bare chest.

You shift, embarrassed, looking anywhere but at him. “Yeah, I need to go shopping.”

A long stretch of silence fills your apartment and you’re unsure of what to say in order to break it. Bucky’s clearly watching you, drinking in the sight of your love-marked body, bruises peeking out of the hem of your shirt that barely skims past the tops of your thighs, and you remember you’re wearing nothing underneath.

And he’s here, right here, and you really aren’t sure why. It seems the two of you have almost switched places. Where Bucky was nervous and shy at first, he’s now confident and comfortable and you’re left with heated cheeks and a tongue-tied in knots. Whatever boldness that came over you all yesterday has fled.

It’s left a deep pocket of insecurity inside of you.

“Why are you still here?” you ask, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, like you don’t care, but your voice shakes a little. He’s too far away to really tell, but you think a flash of hurt passes over Bucky’s brow.

“‘Cause you still owe me a drink,” he says as if it's obvious, a small smile still sitting so prettily on his mouth.

You blink, a little confused, but shuffle closer. “Bloody Mary?”

“Yeah,” he says with a deep breath, his grin growing bigger the closer that you come toward him. “Will you still make me one?”

You nod, toes finally crossing into the kitchen, and then you and Bucky are staring at each other. There are scratches left like the bones of a graveyard on his arms, and you’re almost sure if he turned around they’d cover his neck and back just as well. Seeing those reddened marks, similar to the bruises he’s left on you, makes you relax your shoulders just a little.

“Do you need help?” he asks, eyes sweeping over your barely covered form.

“No,” you say, heading to the kitchen which is little more than a countertop, a stove, and a fridge. “But you can keep me company.”

So this is what happens in the morning after. Bucky leans against the counter next to you, watching you with a burning intensity that nearly matches last night’s, and you pull all the ingredients out and line them up next to two glasses and try not to falter under his gaze. He looks at you like you’re this fascinating thing he needs to study and it bothers you, but only in the best of ways.

“Do you always stare this hard at your dates?” A smile plays at your lips as you crack open the tomato juice.

He doesn’t look away. “No,” he says, but he sounds unsure. “Is this a date, doll?” There’s something in his voice that you can’t figure out, faintly hopeful, fairly confused. Vaguely surprised, even.

You shrug. “Maybe.�� Especially after all of yesterday, you would hope he thought so.

But Bucky shakes his head. “No.”

Ow.

That hurt more than you were expecting it to. Calling yourself his date had only been a joke meant to lighten the mood, ease him up a little, cure the tension swirling in the room. You guess you should have expected it, though. You owed him a drink—he didn’t owe you a date. It wasn’t supposed to be a date, anyway.

All you had done was sleep together, for fuck’s sake. This is why you hate morning afters. This is why you would have preferred it if he had been gone when you woke.

But was that even true? Because the relief you felt when you found him waiting for you in the kitchen was immense and hard to understand.

You open the bottle of vodka a little more forcefully than you intended.

“When we go out on a real date,” he continues, and your eyes meet, “I’ll be taking you out and treating you.” A slow grin crawls over his face that reminds you of his wicked mouth and what it can do and the sight makes your heart beat and beat and beat, faster and faster, like the wings of a hummingbird, quick quick quick.

“When?”

“When,” he affirms.

“That’s bold of you,” you say, popping ice cubes from a tray into the glasses.

“Maybe,” he says, “but I know what I want now.” Bucky shifts a little closer to you, his vibranium arm brushing by the bare skin of your soft one as you try and focus on not spilling the juice, but you can smell him and he smells like cedar and bergamot and smoke and clove. A smell that consumed you whole last night, surrounded you, drowned you in it.

He’s so close you can feel him inhale.

“I’ve lived a long time not knowing—not getting to decide—what I want,” he admits, his voice low and quiet and soothing your nervous heart. “So you can call it bold, but I call it right.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your hands still and you look up at him, eyes wide. In the soft white lights of your tiny kitchen, sharing the tight space with him so close, Bucky’s eyes are thunder and rain and lightning all at once, peace and chaos both, promising release and the sweet scent of earth and oil afterward.

“You don’t even know me,” you whisper.

Bucky leans closer. “But I want to.”

He’s so close, too close, close enough that he can surely hear the rhythm of your heart, unsteady and racing just for him. You could surge forward and kiss him, stake your claim once again on those pinkened lips that have held your attention from the first time you saw them, feel the stubble of his jaw rub against the soft peach fuzz of your own, let it remind you of how it felt against the apex of your thighs as he made you cry out over and over again, breaking on his tongue over and over again.

It makes you feel dizzier than any alcohol ever could.

But Bucky reaches over, past you, and takes one of the glasses from your hand, warm fingers brushing over your cooler ones. He holds it up, toward you, gesturing for a toast. With a swallow, hardly glancing away from his slate eyes to grab the other glass, you tap your Bloody Mary against his with a soft clink.

He watches you over the rim as he takes his first sip and you think he might be smirking. Then, he darts toward you and takes your lips in his own, tasting of spice and tomato juice and perfection, all Bucky, all for you.

When he pulls away, too quickly, he rests his forehead against your and looks down at you, staring into your hazy eyes.

“Will you let me stay?” he asks, like he doesn’t know what you’ll say. The soft, nervous Bucky is peeking out from behind his confident visage once again, his voice hopeful and frightened and the hand that’s gliding beneath your shirt and over your waist more timid than it was last night.

There’s a million things you can say. You can tell him to take you out to brunch instead. You can tell him you’re too busy. You can tell him that this was a one-night stand, it was only ever meant to be a one night stand, and that it was fun but you can’t afford to get attached to him and god, you know you’re going to get attached to him if he stays and that scares the ever-living fuck out of you. You can tell him that it’s messy here, inside your empty apartment, inside your empty heart. You can tell him that he could take up residence here. You can tell him so, so many things.

“Yes,” you say instead, and Bucky laughs against your mouth when he kisses you hard once more.

#Eury2kchallenge #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x plus size reader #plus sized reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fluff #mcu #marvel #bucky barnes smut #smut #divine masterlist

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bokutoslittlebird · 3 years

Text

一徹

Oikawa x reader x Iwaizumi

Author’s Note : 一徹 means “dauntless” and “obstinate,” which is what you get by combining Hajime and Tōru. ; this is supposed to be a fic but it’s more like a drabble honestly ; this is the spreader bar I used as reference

Warnings : noncon, somnophilia, sex toys [spreader bar, cuffs, mentions of a collar], mentions of pregnancy, breeding, drugs/drugging, yandere themes, implied cum eating, dacryphilia, choking, asphyxiation

Your unconscious body happens to be heavier than Oikawa expected, yet still manageable as he places you on the mattress. It’s below his house, in the cold basement, but it’s the only place you can go without suspicions arising. Most of the basement floor was empty, save for the mattress and the spreader bar that would keep you nice and spread. Leaning back and admiring you had his adrenaline levels lowering, the thrill of dragging you here slowly seeping from him.

Watching you, Oikawa focused on the rise and fall of your chest, the steady rhythm calming himself down. It was an effort to get you unguarded, your instincts telling to avoid him. Ever since his eyes locked with yours the first day of his high school days, something told him things would be different. When you became the manager of the volleyball club, you got to learn about the real side of him, never acting like his other fangirls. This made his heart twitch, his longing for you fester into something dark and sinister the day you rejected his advances.

Yet, his less than innocent desire for you was joined by a dear friend of his. Iwaizumi also had a small crush on you, but he could never confess to you. How could he? When you turn away Oikawa, it put a damper on Iwaizumi’s own longing for you. Oikawa knew his best friend better than anyone and Iwaizumi knew Oikawa better than anyone else. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with; their goal was obstinate, nothing could come and stop the gears from the motion they’ve begun.

A groan from your form had Oikawa almost jumping out of his skin, too lost in his own memories and thoughts. The memory of his talk with Iwaizumi is fresh in his mind, the thought of finally fulfilling his dark desire and getting something even more out of it having his restraint withering away. Iwaizumi wouldn’t be able to join you two for quite some time, his own university classes already have begun. Oikawa would take the semester off, focusing on honing his volleyball skills until his trip to Argentina was due.

With you unconscious, Oikawa took it upon himself to strip you out of your clothes. He wasn’t a fiend, he wouldn’t leave you bare in the shivering cold basement. No, he has a recently bought dress, baby blue and silky, specifically tailored to your size. The dress is a halter top, easy to slide on you and it gives easy access to your chest and the goods between your legs. Having the dress situated on your body, he gets to work with putting your wrists and ankles in the spreader bar. He thought about getting a collar for you, but he decided he’d have another way of claiming ownership over you.

Looking at you, completely knocked out thanks to the drug and vulnerable, your puffy cunt exposed to his darkened eyes, it finally shred the last bit of his restraint. He’s sure Iwaizumi wouldn’t be too mean, he should be able to understand the overwhelming desire that Oikawa holds for you. Moving himself between your legs, he notices how dry you are. Despite taking advantage of you and drugging you without consent, he isn’t as mean as to stick it in dry. He wants your cunt absolutely drooling over his cock by the time he sinks into you.

Putting two fingers into his mouth, he coats them in his saliva before pushing them past your folds. You’re so tight around him, even in your sleep, he momentarily wonders if you’ll take him in. Soft moans come from your lips, whines following them as he continues to pump two fingers into you. Once he finds your juices coating his fingers, he pushes in a third one. The stretch is almost too much, his fingers spreading and pumping into you as you fight the effects of the drug. He’s not stupid, he’s well aware that you’ll probably be waking up soon. He doesn’t plan on having some bullshit excuse, he will be completely honest with you.

Removing his fingers from your heat, he laps at the juices coating them. It’s not as much as he was expecting to get from you, but he just shrugs it off. That’s not the focus, it’s just to help ease the pain. His eyes watch your face, the scrunch of your nose as your eyes flutter open, most likely blurry and hazy as he frees his cock from his pants. The exercise pants don’t hold his erection back very well, it is quite obvious. Watching confusion run across your face and then horror and fear replace it as your eyes land on him... he finds himself enjoying it much more than he should.

“Oikawa, what’re you-”

“You should get used to calling me Tōru, dear,” he cuts you off, a sickening grin stretching across his face. “After tonight, we’ll be much closer than before,”

“No, stop!”

“You don’t get to decide that. I’ve waited three long years for this, I’m not going to stop now. I’ve listened and respected your boundaries, but now,” he rubs his cock against your folds, a shivering going up his spine once he does, “you’re all mine. You’ll be all mine, forever. Iwa-chan will be joining us soon, so let’s have some fun together, hm?”

Pushing into you is easier said than done. Even with the added slick that his fingers created, you’re squeezing him so tightly. A whispered ‘fuck’ escapes him, groans following as he rocks his hips into you. Your screams echo off the walls of the basement, but they do little to stop him. It’s painful for now, but he knows you’ll find pleasure in it soon enough. He stops halfway in, letting your walls spread to accompany the rest of him as he runs his hands over the skin of your thighs. Tears stream down your face, whimpers telling him to stop, but he just finds you even more beautiful than before. His momentary stillness has you relaxing a bit, possibly because you think he’s listening to you. Another sinister smile and he shoves the rest of him into you, eyes rolling back as he bottoms out.

More screams come out, tears steady as a stream sliding down your face, but the momentary pleasure and adrenaline from hearing and seeing them has passed. A small growl comes from his throat as his hand latches onto your throat. The sudden movement has you gasping, the pressure too much as you find your oxygen limited. “Shut up, why don’t you? Nobody’s gonna save your ass.” He gets more tears in return, but he doesn’t care.

Rocking his hips, he finds your walls easing up around his cock until your juices have coated it. Another grin paints across his handsome face as he rears his hips back and slams them into you, you gasping from the force and intensity of the thrust. It’s only the beginning, however, as he continues to move his hips back and forth and slam his hips into yours. The skin slapping sounds join in with his grunts and your moans, gargled as well as your screams from his hand. More pressure is put on your throat as he picks up his pace.

The rocking and rolling of his hips against you has your toes curling, your body losing itself in the pleasure. His grunts fill your ears and mind, only focusing on those two things as he chases his own end. The scruff of shoes against the concrete floor doesn’t even register, your eyes rolling as Oikawa comes to his end with a moan. A small whine comes from his throat, a warm liquid filling your insides and a haze filling your mind. The afterglow only lasts a moment, your senses returning to earth once the sound of clapping echoes around the room.

“A great show, Oikawa, but I could do better,” Iwaizumi says, his signature frown in place. His words quickly shatter the hope you had of him helping you, finding that your old friends are darker than you ever thought possible.

“Well, then show me, Iwa-chan,” his voice pitches in tone, almost mocking like, as he uses Iwaizumi’s nickname. A quick flick of his head has Oikawa removing himself from you, a soft whine as he leaves you. His seed oozes out, plopping onto the mattress below. Iwaizumi takes his place, but he keeps his eyes on yours as he does. Sticking his tongue out, he slides it along his thumb and fingers, keeping his gaze locked with yours, making it more sensual than it should.

“You should focus on the pleasure of her, not yourself,” he says to Oikawa, even though his focus is still on you. You find yourself unable to break the trance, only able to do so as your eyes roll back. The orgasm that was never gotten starts again, the buildup as Iwaizumi’s fingers thrust into you. Oikawa’s sopping mess of his cum makes it easy to slip three fingers in, his thumb pressing into your clit and rubbing the sensitive bundle of nerves. A scream is ripped from your throat, but it’s not one of fear nor pain — it’s of pleasure. It’s not long until you’re gushing around Iwaizumi’s fingers, Oikawa’s seed gushing out as you do. His gasp sounds so far away, your high of release finally letting your walls relax. Iwaizumi smiles at that, fingers rubbing against your walls.

“See, look at that. She’s more at ease now because of the orgasm. You should take this as a learning experience, Oikawa,”

“Oh, Iwa-chan. For a virgin, you do know a lot about sex,” Oikawa giggles, hand over his mouth as Iwaizumi’s face blares red. He pushes down the embarrassment, turning back to you laid out before him.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want my first time to suck,” his murmur is so low, you barely hear it over the pounding heartbeat in your ears. The sensation of something once more nudging your entrance has your toes curling, knowing it’s Iwaizumi’s cock this time. Pushing his head in, the flared mushroom tip stretches you farther than Oikawa’s did. The pain has you screaming once more, tears screwed shut as tears slip out. “Watch closely,”

“Yes, sir!” Oikawa practically bounces over to the two of you, leaning over to watch Iwaizumi sinking into you. Oikawa’s cum gushes around Iwaizumi’s cock, the girth of the appendage being too much for you. But he doesn’t solely focus on that, instead he pushes his thumb against your clit once more, rubbing it in circles and flicking it. The rattling of metal fills both their senses, Oikawa’s hands moving up to stop you from accidentally hurting one of them.

It’s almost a miracle, watching your eyes roll back and tongue loll out with a brief roll of Iwaizumi’s hips against you. You’re so sensitive now, Iwaizumi shows Oikawa, before he begins to thrust into you. While Oikawa holds onto the bar and your leg, Iwaizumi’s free hand moves to your other leg. The position has him able to freely see your face while also being able to see your body. Each jolt of pleasure has you shivering, your breasts and body bouncing with each thrust. Although he can’t pin you down and drill himself into you, he finds himself picking up the pace as grunts and groans slip from his mouth.

The way Oikawa practically humps your leg has you wondering if he’s unable to have patience for his turn or if he wishes he was you. Unable to think properly for long, your mind soon focuses on how well Iwaizumi fills you up and the feeling of his heavy balls slapping against your ass, slick with cum and your own fluid. A much more ferocious growl from Iwaizumi has you mewling, legs tensing and a shiver running through you as you squeeze around him, another orgasm ripped from you. The feeling of being full fills your walls once again, Iwaizumi’s groan accompanying it as his seed fills you up. It’s just as heavy and hot as Oikawa’s, sputtering out around the sides of his cock and out of your hole.

A groan, softer this time, comes from him as he pulls out. His limp cock is still as impressive as it was when it was hard, thick and long. Oikawa smiles at him, his own milky fluid splattering across your leg and stomach seconds later as he finishes with a moan. Heavy breathing fills the room, the only thing in the room, until Iwaizumi breaks it.

“Eat it out of her. Then, you can try again,”

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 3 years

Note

This may be oddly specific but what the heck, how about a scenario with a g/n reader where they’re a fashion designer, and they’re talking with the Adeuce duo in Mostro lounge about modelling their latest designs for a magicam photoshoot, but Adeuce are too busy and can’t help, so they’re trying to figure out who can substitute on short notice, all while a certain pair of twins can’t help but overhear their conversation (delete if this is too much)

I fastforwarded past the “reader talking to Adeuce about their designs” part so I could get to the more interesting bits~

I wanted to actually write the part where the twins modelled, but I hit my 1k word limit just doing the build up to it. If you’re interested in seeing the twins model, please consider submitting a follow-up request when I’m taking new ones!

Model Jade though--

[Image used is credited to KawaiiR.]

Imagine this...

Not enough. The hit of sugar from the fruit juice you downed wasn’t enough to settle your stress. As soon as your glass was drained of liquid, you slammed it down upon the counter, head snapping to the bartender.

“Another round,” you grunted, motioning for him to make it quick as you slid your empty container over.

Jade received your cup with a sigh and passed it off to his twin, who had taken advantage of slow business to invade the counter space. Floyd was collecting glasses and stacking them into a neat pyramid. His heterochromatic eyes peered out at odd bends through the curved cups, shining with glee as he used his newly acquired cup to crown off the formation.

Jade’s gaze returned to you, paired with a fake sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid I will have to ‘cut you off’. Drowning your sorrows with drink is not a healthy means of coping.”

If they keep this pace up, we won’t have anything left for the lunch rush. And how bothersome it would be if he had to take precious time out of his break to restock on their beverages.

“Who cares, as long as I pay for it,” you muttered, slamming a hand on the counter. “Another round, Jade.”

“You are already incurring a hefty tab.” He shook his head--a polite refusal.

“Good,” you grumbled sarcastically. “That means Octavinelle gets another indentured servant when I can’t cough up the cash.”

Jade chuckled, bringing a hand to his chest and not making any effort to deny your grim prediction. “Rather than drag yourself further into the depths of debt... May I ask what it is that troubles you, dear customer? Perhaps we may be able to hear you out and assist with your woes.”

“I’m not sure if you can,” you retorted, fingers rubbing at your temples. “I’ve just lost my two models, and I don’t know where I’m going to find replacements on such short notice.”

“You mean Kani-chan and Saba-chan?” Floyd asked, propping his face up with curled fingers. His cheeks squished against his touch, granting him a more innocent look than usual. “They were with you earlier and left all in a hurry.”

“Yeah. Deuce had a Track and Field Club meet he forgot about, and Ace got detention with Crewel for failing the last quiz,” you groaned, “which leaves me without models for my new collection.”

“Collection?” Floyd’s face suddenly lit up with interest. “Like a fashion collection?”

“Yup, that’s right.” You fished your phone out of your pocket and unlocked it, pulling up your Magicam account. The students of NRC may have boasted magical pens, but you wove your own magic with needle and cloth. “I share the outfits I design and make.”

You tilted your mobile device to show your page. Each image cropped nicely, expertly shot and edited to perfection--very aesthetic. Floyd “ooh”ed and “aah”ed at the designs parading across the screen, but Jade’s eyes immediately honed in on your follower count.

It wasn’t celebrity status like Vil’s cool 5 million count. It wasn’t even decent-sized influencer status like Cater’six digits. But it was at least a few thousand, and numbers like that had reasonable sway.

“I could take pictures of mannequins with my clothes, but it just doesn’t feel the same as when real, breathing people are wearing them,” you explained. “It’s hard to find the right types for this sort of thing...”

The twins hovered over your phone, nearly cheek to cheek and shoulder to shoulder, as they absorbed your Magicam gallery. Spitting images, reflections with slight differences--the shape and colors of their eyes, the black tufts of hair that swung like pendulums, framing their handsome faces. Features delicate, yet sharp.

Your voice trailed off as realizations lowly set in. The longer you stared at the twins, the more pieces seemed to fall in place of the puzzle. “Tall, broad shouldered, and the facial symmetry...” You brought a hand to your chin, brows creasing in concentration.

That’s it.

“You’re exactly what I’m looking for!!” you blurted out, abruptly standing and seizing each of their hands. “Please, be my models!”

“Mmm? Sounds fun!” Floyd threw his head back and laughed, eager to be amused by something new. He turned to his brother. “Ne, ne, Jade~ Can we?”

“Hmm.” Jade cast a cursory glance around the Mostro Lounge. Not a soul in sight. Then he returned to your Magicam page, and its tempting follower count. “Well, the Mostro Lounge has been looking to increase its social media presence. What better way to achieve that than by cross promoting with a fellow content creator? And what’s more...”

He snickered into his hand. “I could not possibly allow Floyd, nor myself, to continue to wallow in boredom.”

“Then...!!” You clutched their hands tighter, hope filling your heart.

“We will lend you our aid for this endeavor.”

“Yes...!! Thank you, thank you so much!!” You clapped in excitement, your legs caught up in a little jig. “Oh, I’ll need to take your measurements, then tailor Ace and Deuce’s original outfits to your sizes. We also need to find a suitable spot for the photo shoot--a place with natural lighting would be best--and, and, and...”

“There will be plenty of time to sort those details out,” Jade calmly reassured you. “Ah, but first... there remains the matter of your drink tab.”

“... Oh.”

“Furthermore, since you are contracting us... You will need to draw up a formal agreement with Azul, and agree to his terms and conditions by signing off on the dotted line,” Jade continued, his tone even and pleasant.

You swallowed hard. A deal with Octavinelle? It may as well have been signing your soul away.

“You got it, riiight?” Floyd inquired in a lazy drawl. “Cuz you’re a fashion designer and all. You must’ve worked with contracts before.”

“You understand, yes?” Jade pressed, chiming in with his twin.

“E-Er, now wait a sec...”

“It’s just business,” the twins recited in unison--their smiles dangerously devilish.

#twst #twisted wonderland #Floyd Leech #Jade Leech #Tweels #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #Reader #self insert #imagine this #disney twisted wonderland

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ohpedromypedro · 4 years

Text

Pour toi? Toujours.

A/N: This is my first Max Phillips fic and I’m excited to finally get it posted for my fellow Max lovers to read. 😍 In my world, Bloodsucking Bastards ended differently than it did canonically, so most characters are still alive, just vampires. (Except Ted. He’s still dead, but it’s not actually mentioned in the fic. 😏)

word count: 4.4k

pairings/characters: Max Phillips x f!Reader, bout 70% of the characters from the movie (only half have dialogue lol)

warnings: Is a lot an acceptable answer? lmao. uhm in no particular order to how it’s written in the fic; language, smut, mild nudity, public sex, very vocal Max and reader during the sex, possessive/overprotective Max, sleazy jock dude trying to get laid, sexist/homophobic comments from said sleazy guy, character death (guess who?), use of vampire powers, complete mind control, alcohol use, etc.

summary: none, cause I suck at them lmao let’s just say this fic idea came about from one of @a-seeker-of-imagination‘s and my many thirst conversations about Max. 😘

When Tim suggested a small office staff gathering at some random bar, your immediate response was going to be “hell no” because you did not want to be around your coworkers when they’re intoxicated, seeing as you suffer being around them all day at the office enough as it is, but Max being Max jumped the gun and said “hell yeah let’s do it!” for the both of you. You want to be annoyed, but you love your vampire boyfriend enough not to be annoyed with him for longer than a few lingering moments. If he wants to have fun watching humans get wasted on a Friday night, why not let him have it? If anything you’ll stick right by his side the entire time, not wanting to entertain your coworkers with your presence, maybe only Amanda, Evan, Tim, and Frank. The others, not so much.

“Are you ready, babe?” Max hums when he comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle from behind while admiring the view of you in the reflection of the mirror. The dress you chose hugs you in all the right places, accents every one of your best features and the best of all, it’s red just for Max’s viewing pleasure.

You smile when you feel his arms wrap around you, lifting your head a bit to press a gentle kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Just gotta throw on some shoes and I’m good to go, handsome.”

“You look sexy,” he sighs, running his hands along your sides while breathing in the scent of your recently shampooed hair.

“Yeah? I was hoping you’d think so,” you tease, turning around in his hold and leaning up to press a deep kiss to his lips. “This is all for you, Phillips. Remember that.”

“How could I forget?” He groans, dropping his hands to give each of your ass cheeks a firm squeeze. “I get to share the same bed as this.”

“Mmm.” You hum, small little smirk on your face from the way he grabs your ass. “If you keep that up, we won’t make it to the bar and you’re the one who wants to go.”

“Can’t help it when you’re donning my favorite dress.” He smirks right back, moving his hands back up to your waist and giving a gentle knead with his thumbs.

“Topped with this necklace and I look like a snack.”

“Oh absolutely, Sweetheart. I could just eat you right up,” he murmurs, leaning close to press his lips to the most sensitive part of your neck, his fangs just barely poking into your skin moments later.

“Max,” you gasp, your still human heart thudding against your chest. You know he’d never do anything to hurt you intentionally, yeah he’s a vampire and one little accidental slip could end in him injecting you with his venom, which you’re not quite ready for just yet since you want to wait for the perfect moment, but your heart is racing for other reasons.

“Mmm I can hear how fast I make your heart beat when I do that, baby… Am I making you nervous?” He teases, pressing his nose against the pulse point of your throat.

“I trust you,” you whisper, willing yourself not to focus on the arousal you feel from the dangerous prick of his fangs to your neck.

“And that’s why I love you.” He pulls back, gazing down at you with a gentle touch to your cheek. “And why I will wait as long as I need to for you to be ready for the night I change you.”

“Oh, Max… I love you so much.” You breathe, leaning up to press another kiss to his lips, both of his hands now cupping your face. “How’d I get so lucky?” You whisper when he presses his forehead to yours, smile wide on his face.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking that?” He chuckles, gently brushing his thumbs against your cheekbones.

“You? I’m the one with an immortal boyfriend,” you giggle softly, giving your head a small shake.

“And I’m the immortal vampire who found a beautiful young woman worth spending his life with and one who’s so willing to be turned when the time is right.”

“I guess we’re both lucky then, huh?” You bite your lip with a smile, gently running your hands over his tailored chest. “You know what else we are, Mr Phillips?”

“What’s that?” He smiles, lightly brushing his nose against your own.

“Late.”

“Oh shit you’re right,” he chuckles, giving his head a shake as he looks at his watch. “We’re too easily distracted by each other sometimes.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you smirk, pressing a quick, teasing peck to the corner of his mouth before going to the closet to quickly slip on your shoes. “Alright, now I’m ready.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“About time you two got here,” Tim rolls his eyes, assuming that the two of you were busy getting a quick lay in before coming, which oh how wrong he is.

“Didn’t know we had to be here in a specific time frame,” Max tuts in an annoyed manner as he and you approach the side of the bar Tim, Evan, Amanda, Frank, Andrew, Zabeth and a few other new office coworkers are occupying, sort of claiming the area as yours for the time being.

“Don’t listen to Tim. He’s just mad that we decided eight against one to wait until you two got here to order our drinks.” Amanda smiles sweetly at the two of you, moreso genuine to you than to Max, she still doesn’t trust him and she probably never will until you convince her otherwise.

“Well, thank you to everyone besides Tim,” you smile, giving Tim a light teasing tap on the back. “Now, I’m gonna go order myself a drink. Coming, handsome?” You muse to Max, grabbing him by the tie and pulling him with you toward the bar.

“Eager, are we?” He chuckles, settling his hands on your waist from behind after you stop at the bar and wait for the bartender to come over.

“Just dying for a Bloody Mary,” you hum, resting the top of your head against his chest so you can look up at him. Of course he’s smirking.

“What an interesting beverage choice. I wonder what made you choose it.”

“Maybe I like vodka and tomato juice,” you shrug, knowing he’s more referring to the name, but you just love to tease him.

“Mmhm and when’s the last time you drank a Bloody Mary?”

“Uhh…”

“Exactly,” he smirks, playfully nipping at your nose.

“Whatever,” you laugh, giving the bartender a smile when she comes over. “I’ll have a Bloody Mary please.”

“And I’ll take a whiskey on the rocks with a water on the side, thank you.” Max smiles, rubbing his hands over your hips.

“You got it,” she smiles and nods, walking away to go make your drinks.

“So,” you hum, spinning around so you can rub your hands up Max’s chest and fix his tie a bit. “I’ve gotta use the ladies room real quick, could you bring my drink to the table if the bartender’s done before I finish?”

“Of course, beautiful. You know I will either way.”

“I love you, handsome.” You smile, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips before excusing yourself to the ladies room to relieve your bladder.

Amanda’s at the sink washing her hands when you walk in and you give her a small smile before going into one of the small stalls to pee. After wiping and fixing yourself up, you flush the toilet with your foot and go to wash your own hands. She’s still standing there at the mirror when you come out of the stall, applying a small amount of lip gloss to her lips.

“Hey. How’re things with Evan?” You smile, turning the faucet off after rinsing your hands and grabbing some paper towels to dry.

“Good,” she says with enthusiasm. “We worked things out after the success of the Phallicyte presentation and everything just started falling right back into place, where it should be, you know?”

“Yeah,” you smile, giving your head an understanding nod. “I’m glad you both worked things out together and I’m also happy to be able to help keep Max off your back since I know how he was before Tim suggested he hire a personal assistant to “keep him busy”.” You shake your head and laugh softly, looking at her with sincerity. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore, you know. I’m not just his personal assistant anymore, I’ve...fallen so hard for him and he’s willing to wait until I’m ready to turn me into an immortal vampire. That’s not the point, though, my point is that I love him and I’m willing to keep him in line for the sake of the people who work for and with him.”

“I appreciate that. Really. It might be hard to trust him, but I’m willing to try knowing he’s got you to tame him.”

“He needs that human touch and interaction for as long as he can before I’m ready to give it all up to spend eternity with him.” You muse, shrugging your shoulders as you take a quick glimpse in the dimly lit mirror to make sure your own makeup is tip top. “Plus, girl’s gotta stick by each other’s sides in every situation.”

“You got that right,” she laughs, the two of you moving to exit the bathroom.

The bar is a little busier now, more people than there were five minutes ago. Your gaze searches the area for Max and you spot him at the table setting your drinks down. You smile and are about to start heading that way when an obnoxiously tall figure steps in front of you blocking your view and your way to the table.

“Well hello gorgeous.”

You look up and meet the gaze of some clearly 21 year old college jock, your eyes rolling back as you take a step away from him. You don’t have time for dumb college guys’ drunken stupors.

“Way out of your league, bud. Nice try though.” You smile tightly, moving to walk around him but he only steps to the side to prevent you from walking away.

“Come on, pretty girl. You can’t come to a bar dressed like that and not expect someone to pick you up.” He smirks, looking you up and down as though you’re nothing but a piece of meat.

“That’s extremely sexist and disgusting,” Amanda chimes in, moving to stand by your side. “Not everyone dresses like this to be picked up by sleazy boys like you. Leave her alone.”

“No one was talking to you, dyke.” He glares at Amanda and you can only gasp with disgust at this asshole’s words.

“Dude, your parents raised you the absolute wrong way. You’ll never find a woman to marry with an attitude and sick personality like that.” You snap, shoving him away from you. “Can’t you see I’m clearly not interested? Plus, my boyfriend is right over there and he’s well on the extreme side of dangerous, so watch what you do and say or it’ll cost you.”

“Oh come on, you think that’s going to work on me? Trying to scare me with your “dangerous” boyfriend? Pathetic. Come on,” he says, stepping toward you again and this time grabbing your waist and pulling you against him, his hand travelling down toward your ass. “I can show you a better time than this imaginary dangerous boyfriend of yours.” His hand squeezes your ass as he smirks down at you.

Max looks over at just the right moment to see the guy grab and violate you and instantly his eyes are filled with murder. Who dares put their hands on his woman like that? And judging by the look on your face and the way you shove the guy away and slap him, just shows Max that you aren’t enjoying this guy’s presence very much, so immediately he starts stomping toward the three of you.

You see Max coming the moment he moves away from the table, can see the rage and hatred in his eyes for the guy who not only put his hands on you, but spoke such vile, offensive and sexist things to you and Amanda. You bite your lip and step back, pulling Amanda with you until the both of you are leaning against the wall. The jock guy goes to move toward you, but Max speaks up.

“Hey asshole!” He growls, earning the guy’s attention now. “You put your filthy little human fingers on my girlfriend and think you’re gonna get away with it?” His tone is dangerous, obviously, and the speed his vampire ability has him approaching the guy with barely gives him time to react. Max’s fangs are already showing and before the guy can even attempt to make a run for it, Max is already grabbing him and going right to snapping his neck.

Both you and Amanda watch with wide eyes as the jock’s lifeless body drops to the floor of the bar, mysteriously the only gazes on the four of you being the eyes of your fellow company. No one else has any clue as to what just happened, powers of being a vampire, you suppose. Max’s chest is heaving and quickly you rush to gently lay your hand on his chest, the other raising to touch his cheek.

“Max… It’s okay. I’m okay. Breathe for me, baby.” You murmur, touching your forehead to his own.

“I need fresh air,” he sighs, taking your hand and pulling you outside with him, leading you to a darker part of the building toward the back so he can clear his mind. There’s a few long moments of silence before he speaks again, his words a low growl filled with lust now. “I can smell you.”

“What?” You whisper, your cheeks turning a bright red from his sudden change in tone.

You can’t lie, watching Max snap that guy’s neck without a second thought turned you on more than you care to admit and it’s the overprotective manner in which he did it that has your pheromones so noticeable to him.

“I can smell how wet you are, how turned on me snapping that prick’s pathetic little neck made you.” He presses his nose to your throat, his body caging you against the building.

“Max,” you moan, your fingers carding through his hair while you give your head a tilt to the side. “Fuck, it was just so hot...watching you kill a man for me, over me.”

“You are mine,” he growls.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Like I said earlier, this is all for you, Max Phillips.”

“No one will ever dare put their hands on you again.” His hands squeeze your hips before moving up toward your breasts where he gently massages them through the fabric of your dress, earning himself soft moans from you in response.

“Please take me right here, Max… Please, I need you.” Your voice is soft, but the begging is powerful in your tone and hearing it is pleasant to his ears.

“I know,” he smirks, capturing your lips for a hard kiss while sliding the hem of your dress up, revealing your lack of panties beneath when his hand moves to rub over your drenched folds. “Fuck, you didn’t tell me you weren’t wearing panties.”

“You didn’t ask,” you moan into his mouth, your own hands dropping to start freeing his cock from its confinements. “I figured we’d end up like this at some point.”

“Oh?” He chuckles, hooking one of your legs around his waist and easily sliding two of his fingers into your drenched core, giving them several curls against your spongy walls.

“Y-- fuck,” you moan, your walls clenching around his digits when they curl inside you. “Yes.”

“Such a good girl you are, huh baby?” He rasps, groaning when your hand reaches into his now unbuttoned pants and gives his cock a firm squeeze.

“Only for you,” you murmur while you pull his entire length free, giving him a few hard pumps as you move to kiss him even harder.

“Fuck,” he groans into the kiss, his fingers promptly pulling out of your heat and replacing them with the head of his cock, pushing his hips forward so your walls engulf each thick inch of him.

“Oh Max,” you moan, jumping up so you can wrap your other leg around his middle and allow him access to your ass to hold you up against the wall while he fucks into you.

“That’s right, baby...only my name leaves that pretty mouth of yours, no other man could ever compare to how good I make you feel.” His movements still once he’s buried completely inside of you, your walls clenching around him like a vice while they adjust to the way he stretches you. God, his cock still takes getting used to.

“Move,” you finally whine out after he stays sheathed inside of you a few moments too long, rocking yourself against him for some sort of friction. “Please fuck me, so anyone that’s in hearing distance knows who I belong to.”

“Good fucking girl,” Max groans, kissing you hard once more while starting to thrust in and out of you at a rapid pace, your arms thrown around his neck to keep yourself grounded as he fucks and publicly claims you against the back wall outside the bar. “Want to hear you scream my name into the night sky, baby...” he murmurs as he presses his lips to your ear, forcing his length deeper and harder into you.

“Max! Oh yes, like that!” You cry out, head now thrown back against the wall behind you. Max takes the chance to start kissing along your throat, teasingly nipping at the sensitive skin with his fangs, knowing how much you get off on it despite the risks. “Oh fuck yes, don’t stop!”

“Wasn’t going to,” he growls, giving your ass a light slap while continuing to hold you up against the wall, the force of his thrusts visible in the way your breasts bounce beneath the fabric of your dress. “You feel so fucking good, Sweetheart… There’s no way I’m stopping yet.”

“Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck,” you moan louder the deeper and harder he sends his cock, your hands moving to tangle your fingers through his hair and give a few hard pulls. “Mmmmm you feel so f-fucking good inside of me, Max...stretch me in all the best ways.”

“That’s right,” he groans, burying his face against the pulse point of your throat and sucking a nice dark bruise there, marking you for others to see in a temporary way until he can finally mark you with his fangs. “Only I fit this perfectly inside of you, I’m the exact puzzle piece your sweet little pussy needs.”

“Oh yes,” you softly groan from the way he marks your throat, eyes slowly rolling toward the back of your head as your impending orgasm starts to creep up on you. “Mmmm Max! I-I’m...fuck, gonna cum soon...”

“Yeah? Gonna drench each inch of my cock, baby? Show the world just how good I fuck my girl?” One of his hands moves to start rubbing fast circles on your clit, his other hand still gripped hard on your ass.

“Yes!” You cry out with a hard clench around his length from the added stimulation to your bundle of nerves, only spurring his rubs to be even harder from how damn good you feel wrapped around him. His rubs to your clit, along with his continued harsh and deep thrusts into you, pushes you right toward your orgasm and soon you’re screaming out his name with another tight squeeze around him. “Oh Max!”

“Fuck. That’s it, baby...cum for me, all for me. My good girl,” he praises in your ear, licking and sucking at your earlobe while he fucks you through your orgasm.

“Please fill my sweet little pussy with your cum, Max! Want your seed coating my thighs by the time we get back inside…”

“Fuck,” he growls, moving to kiss you hard while starting to thrust so relentlessly that he has to swallow all your screams as he fills you with his cum. “Take every last drop and let it be a reminder that no one will ever have the pleasure of filling you the way I do.”

“I don’t want anyone else. Want you, only you... Only need you Max Phillips,” you groan in between kisses, your body slowly overcoming the aftereffects of the waves of pleasure your orgasm washed onto you. “I love you so much.” You breathe, resting your forehead against Max’s as he gradually slows his thrusts after filling you with a thick load of his cum.

“Je t’aime plus que tu ne le sauras jamais.” He says it so fluidly, as though French is the only language he speaks in this moment, and it makes you smile so wide that he knows you love it when he does. translation (per google translate lmao): I love you more than you’ll ever know.

“Say something else in French, something romantic.” You murmur, sighing softly when he slowly pulls his length from inside you and sets you back onto your feet.

“Je veux que tu deviennes ma femme avant de te transformer...je veux savourer ton humanité aussi longtemps que je peux.” He kisses you again, his hands fixing the hem of your dress so it looks undisturbed.

“Touché, mister romantic over here.” You smile against his lips, helping tuck his cock back in his pants and zipping him back up. The things lovers do for another after a nice quickie.

“I said,” he chuckles, holding you by the waist and gazing down at you with a large smile. “I want you to become my wife before I turn you. I want to savor your humanity for as long as I can.”

“Really?” You whisper. “Oh Max, I… You’re actually asking me to be your wife?” You bite your lip, gazing up at him with wide eyes.

“Would you marry me first?”

“Yes,” you breathe, nodding your head fervently. “Absolutely one million times yes.”

“Then yes, I am asking you to be my wife.” He whispers, kissing you one more time before pulling back and taking both your hands in his own. “I...already had a ring made for you and everything. It’s back home in my drawer.”

“You had a ring made for me?” You murmur in awe, looking up at your now fiancé with admiration.

“It not only symbolizes our eternal bond to one another, but also has the power to protect you from sunlight. My ring will do the same.”

“Oh Max Phillips, you are such a romantic.” You giggle, giving him one more quick but passionate kiss before pulling back and leading him back toward the front entrance of the bar.

“Pour toi? Toujours.”

Your smile is wide when you and Max walk back over to the table where your fellow associates are waiting for you, their eyes sort of wide with questions. You only shake your head and move to slide in the large booth next to Amanda.

“Everything’s okay.” You reassure, a smile still on your face. “Actually, it’s perfect.” You look over at Max when he slides in beside you, his arm slipping right around your waist. “Max and I are perfect.”

“Sooo we’re not gonna talk about the dead guy over there?” Tim questions nonchalantly, his thumb pointing in that direction. Evan slaps his hand down.

“What’s there to talk about?” Max inquires, grabbing his water and taking a quick sip. “Guy put his hands on my girl without consent, he deserved it.”

“Amen,” you and Amanda say it at the same time, both of you giving each other a smile.

“He also said some questionably offensive and sexist things, so yeah, he deserved it.” Amanda shrugs, sipping on her fruity cocktail.

“Are we also not going to talk about how absolutely no one in this bar saw a thing?” Andrew’s eyebrows are raised and Max only laughs.

“Mind control, duh. You’re a vampire now, you should know that.”

“Right,” he nods, realizing now that Max had everybody under his control. “How’d you manage to get the whole bar to pay no mind to any of that?”

“Lots of practice and loads of charm,” Max smirks, rubbing his thumb along your upper arm.

“Did you use it on Y/N to make her fall in love with you?”

“Tim!” Evan scolds, giving his best friend a “what the fuck?” look.

“No,” you and Max say in unison, earning each other’s gaze and a smile.

“I would never use it on her like that, never against her will,” Max shakes his head as he looks back at Tim.

“And I pretty much fell for him before he even took his first glance at me the day I started working as his personal assistant,” you admit with a blush, nestling yourself closer against Max’s side. “There was just a certain aura about him that I felt when I first saw him through his office windows...and I knew then that this job would change everything for me. I was right.”

“She changed my world and it’s why I’m making her my wife.” Max says it so proudly that you can’t help but smile up at and kiss him.

“Is that why you two were taking so long outside? Being all lovey dovey and getting engaged?” Tim asks, giving his eyes a small role.

“You could say that, yeah.” You smile, taking Max’s freehand and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Contrary to popular belief, Max is quite the romantic.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Evan mumbles and Amanda gently elbows him in the side.

“Say what you want, Evan, but it won’t change the way I love the woman I’m going to spend eternity with.” Max retorts, pressing a gentle kiss to your hair.

“Je t’aime,” you smile up at him.

“Je t’aime pour toujours, chérie,” he muses, lightly rubbing his nose against the tip of yours.

“Oh gag.”

“Shut up Tim!”

You laugh at all the simultaneous outbursts at Tim, shaking your head with an amused smile as you gaze up at Max and gently rest your hand against his cheek.

“Let’s go home and celebrate, my love. Just you and me.”

“Sounds like a plan to me, baby.”

Everything taglist: @halefirewarrior @takemepedropascal @wildcard566 @readsalot73 @talesfromtheguild @msmona @oberynispunk @whiskeyxinxaxteacup @pedrosdoll @ah-callie

Max Phillips taglist: @a-seeker-of-imagination (if you’d like to be added, let me know! 💕

#max phillips x reader #max phillips x you #max phillips x female!reader #max phillips x y/n #max phillips fic #max phillips smut #bloodsucking bastards #max phillips #pedro pascal #nsft #my writing #ohpedromypedro

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bronanlynch · 3 years

Text

bi-ish weekly update

time sure passes huh. meant to do one last week but I wrote like 5000 words on Wednesday instead, and I’m not really sure what happened yesterday but maybe Thursday is my new day for these

listening: two for the price of one this week since I’m excited about both of them. first of all, obviously, is the Sangfielle theme by Jack de Quidt because it’s time for a new season of Friends at the Table. I love their description of this season’s music

the other thing I’ve been listening to is the new album from one of my fave bands, You’re Welcome from A Day to Remember. this is by far not the most musically interesting or complex song on the album but it is about, as far as I can tell, a bad breakup with a vampire and I love it for that just on principle, but also it’s fun! a fun pop punk-esque bop about breaking up with a vampire!

youtube

reading: since last time when I talked about many romance novels I was reading, I mostly just read more romance novels because sometimes that is all the brain can handle. shout out to KJ Charles for writing a historical romance with a nonbinary main characters, you really do love to see it. I appreciate that she puts trans characters in her books, and I hope that someday she writes one with a trans man as a main character, because that truly would be a book targeted directly at me.

I’ve also been reading the Kate Kane, Paranormal Investigator series by Alexis Hall (author of Affair of the Mysterious Letter, a weird fantasy queer Sherlock Holmes retelling that absolutely fucking slaps, highly recommend).

this is his author bio from the Kate Kane books, which really just sets the tone and also. what a fucking life goal

anyway. series starts with Iron & Velvet which is currently on sale, which is why I bought it, and it also fucking slaps. I’m like halfway through the last book right now but they have all been good and fun. Kate is like. archetypal disaster p.i. but done in an interesting way (i.e. the narrative actually addresses the depression and the alcoholism in a way that I personally really appreciated), and also pretty much every woman in the ~supernatural community she encounters is an ex or someone she will flirt/hook up with at some point, which is an accurate representation of every irl queer space I’ve ever been part of. she dates a vampire for a while. hot morally questionable vampire lady. the vampire power structure names positions after tarot cards it’s very fun and sexy and tailored specifically toward my interests. also she lives in the same part of London as my ex-girlfriend so it’s. fun to recognize place names and be like. oh I went there on a date once huh

watching: started watching Turn A Gundam because a twitter friend recommended it as being fun and also very different then any other Gundam series and they were right on both counts. the premise of it is ‘what if a bunch of people went to live on the moon and some people stayed on earth, the moon people got real into super advanced technology and the earth people are larping the 19th century, and now the moon people want to come back’ so there’s a fun mix of visual styles. would love to see serious analytical writing on this show by someone more versed in discussing indigeneity/colonialism than me though because there are things that I’m a little bit hmmm at but I don’t know enough to be able to explain why or know if that’s the right response to have

don’t know what’s up with the dude on the left’s sunglasses but my friend has promised me the fashion choices only get weirder

I know about the ‘wow cool robots’ meme but some of the mech designs are very cool and visually distinct both from each other and from the standard blocky humanoid shape that lots of mechs are, so that’s fun to see. and they’re all different sizes too, which for me at least makes it easier to get a sense of the scale of the conflict/threat. when they’re all the same size it’s easy for me to forget they’re like 40 feet tall but when some of them are 40 feet and some of them are like 10 feet it’s a lot easier to be like. oh. oh shit. these are big and destructive and scary as hell

there are mini versions of this big mech that are like. the size of one of its feet

also there’s some fun stuff about how the way society relates to a mech and what a mech is used for can change over time, which is part of what is maybe inspiring me to get back into trying to write games, because between Turn A and the fic I was writing about Integrity Friendsatthetable I was like. hey what if a hack of The Ground Itself by Everest Pipkin, a game about a place changing over time, except instead of a place it’s a mech

playing: finished Knife of Dunwall finally! please clap! I was kinda half-expecting not to keep to low chaos in the last mission because there are so many overseers but I did it! I did do a bunch of accidentally getting into fights, killing a bunch of people, and then reloading an earlier save so I could go back and not kill those people but it’s fine. anyway. fun game, fun level once I got the hang of it, and I do feel like I accomplished something a lil bit difficult so that’s a nice feeling. definitely harder than the main game. also, very sad about Billie and gay for Delilah. she shows up just to threaten you and then disappears again, and I think that’s pretty hot of her. also love the narrative parallels of having the choice to spare Billie and then the game ending with Corvo about to decide whether to spare Daud or not. I just think that’s neat

making: made some Thai green curry last week from this recipe, which was tasty and not too hard to make, but has just enough specialty ingredients to make it a lil bit too expensive to make too often. our grocery store only ever has lemongrass when we’re looking for things that look kinda like lemongrass but aren’t, and didn’t have any when we need it so we just used extra lemongrass paste and lime juice for the lemongrass, and for the kaffir lime leaves, which we were also supposed to substitute with lemongrass but. it’s fine it was still tasty

writing: a lot somehow, although it’s been over two weeks since last time I did one of these so I guess that makes sense. I wrote a couple of things for 15 Days of Friends at the Table, including Broun, Milli, and Thisbe cottagecore roommates, Clem and Gucci bickering/flirting, and an extended dream sequence that makes me very sad about Integrity (I’m very proud of the last one, I know it has a very small target audience because Sokrates/Integrity is very much a rarepair in an already small fandom, there are 6 works in the tag, 4 of them are by me, 2 of them are by the same other person, and one of those is a gift for me so. it’s mostly just me, but I think I wrote something pretty good)

also meant to write more for Persona 5 Girls Week, although so far I’ve only written one thing, a quick fluff fic which for once requires very little knowledge of the source material. meant to write something for today’s prompt but instead I had two job interviews and then cooked dinner for my household so that probably will not happen and I will probably watch more Gundam instead

#dreaming.txt #tuesday no problem extended universe #contains pictures of food below the readmore

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slimepen5 · 3 years

Text

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As expected, the differences in proteolytic tasks and healthy protein hydrolysis patterns are even more noticeable when comparing different Lactobacillus varieties. A comparable observation was made when contrasting 14 stress of Lb. It is currently acknowledged that diet regimen plays a crucial function in the upkeep of our health and wellness condition. Listed below, some of the technical, regulatory, and business difficulties to bring AMP-based medicines right into the professional advancement are highlighted. Besides direct administration of AMPs, there are several efforts ongoing to make use of agents to enhance the endogenous manufacturing of AMPs by the body in order to boost the innate immune feedbacks and also thereby battle infections.

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If incapable to send sample promptly, freeze at -20 ° C and send at ambient temperature in the post. For long-term storage (e.g. to set samples), we suggest cold at -80 ° C.

This will take around 1 day, depending on example concentration. These initial information will certainly enable us to review the moment and the experimental conditions (i.e. sort of classified cores, optimum healthy protein, barrier focus as well as pH) required to acquire a high resolution architectural determination on the individual's protein. There were no distinctions hurting or practical ratings across the trial, yet there were differences at a long time factors which favoured the collagen team when feature was gauged in a second way.

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You can think of it as the adhesive that holds all these things with each other. In fact, words collagen originates from the Greek word "kólla," which indicates adhesive. Mix 1-2 scoops right into a big mug of water, tea, coffee or juice or add to foods such as gruel, soups as well as smoothie mixes. When a peptide consists of an internal proline, strong ion series due to internal bosom are observed, extending from the proline in the direction of the C terminus. The very first NMR experiments obtained will certainly explore the state of the healthy protein and also it's viability for further study at the picked NMR healthy protein concentration, acquiring 1D 1H and/or 2D 15N HSQC ranges.

The carboxylic team sheds the oxygen and hydrogen while the thiol group loses its hydrogen and a thioester bond is formed. Based upon the stereochemistry of the anomeric carbon or its orientation precede, a glycosidic bond can either be an alpha-bond or a beta-bond. In an O-glycosidic linkage, the carbonyl group of carbs reacts with the hydroxyl group of another compound.

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In order to get to the cytoplasmic membrane layer of Gram-negative microorganisms, AMPs need to first translocate through the outer membrane. This model recommends that, as a result of better fondness for the LPS, AMPs displace the divalent cations and also bind to the LPS. By being cumbersome, the AMPs after that cause short-term cracks as well as permeabilize the external membrane, thereby allowing passage of the peptide itself across the membrane.

" I am checking out my legal choices, in terms of where I stand and what I can do.

Responsible sporting activities nourishment makers and merchants guarantee their products are extremely clearly labelled as well as stick to EU regulation.

" These companies need to be scared to put things like ostarine into their products", he suggests.

Virtually all performance-enhancing substances that are outlawed by organisations like WADA and also the IOC are also outlawed available in the European Union.

' Everything from the composition, classifying to the marketing and advertising has to comply with the EU laws implemented to protect consumers.

That may cost me a great deal of cash and I'm uncertain I can pay for to do that.

Neuropeptides are held within big dense-core vesicles throughout the cell body, whereas natural chemicals are included in small vesicles situated at synapses. The Open College is incorporated by Royal Charter, an exempt charity in England & Wales and also a charity registered in Scotland. The Open University is authorized and also managed by the Financial Conduct Authority in connection with its secondary activity of credit scores broking. Not prepared for College study then surf over 900 complimentary courses on OpenLearn and also join to our newsletterto find out about brand-new complimentary programs as they are launched. After a month of use can observe nicer appearance of skin, nails as well as hair. I simulate it and am constantly attempting to add collagen to my diet regimen currently im aging and also yes I would certainly utilize this once again.

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Sarms are small, sticky white blood cells that play an important role in the immune system. They help to fight off infections by stimulating white blood cells and stimulating natural killer cells to kill infection-causing bacteria. This is perhaps why sarms are often called "ice bacteria killers".

Selective androgens, including SARMs, are a new class of compounds known as androgens. most popular UK sarms post cycle therapy supplement Sarms were initially discovered in the 1970s by scientists hoping to find a way to treat enlarged prostate (benign prostatic hypertrophy). They worked out how to convert the ostarine amino acid into an inactive form that was inactive in the prostate and therefore not harmful to the prostate. Since then, researchers have shown great interest in the properties of SARMs and in how they might be beneficial to men with erectile dysfunction.

Test 4 consisted of UK sterile water 2ml with moderate to moderate osteoarthritis of the knee. Participants were offered either a collagen formula (Fortigel ®) or a placebo for 24 weeks. Those that got collagen reported a greater decrease in pain. In this trial, 250 people with osteoarthritis of the knee were randomised to obtain either 10 g collagen hydrolysate or a placebo daily for six months. This test consisted of 389 individuals with osteo arthritis across 20 websites in the UK, U.S.A. as well as Germany.

Using Lactobacillus strains for BAP production is a method that still deals with restrictions. Applications of BAPs generated by Lactobacillus species relying on the manufacturing technique.

Individuals were randomised to obtain either 10 g of collagen hydrolysate or placebo tablet computers for 24 weeks. Type II collagen showed less inflamed joints, joint tenderness as well as much better stroll time in only one of the trials against a sugar pill. Four tests evaluated collagen versus a placebo and also one evaluated it versus methotrexate. The tests for included in between 60 and 503 participants with rheumatoid joint inflammation.

Will rad140 show up on a drug test?

RAD140 and the majority of the identified in vitro metabolites were detected in post‐administration urine samples. For controlling the misuse of RAD140 in horses, RAD140 and its metabolite in sulfate form gave the longest detection time in hydrolysed urine and could be detected for up to 6 days post‐administration.

I can not see the difference that carefully due to the fact that no person understands your face as you do however I can certainly see a difference in her skin, particularly when she smiles. So, seemingly it not only offers help with your bones and also joints etc but appears to plump your skin. try this product advise making collagen part of your day-to-day routine and for the long-term to see ideal results.

It's such a wonderful way to obtain all the benefits across all foods and also drinks! I do want it came in bigger bathtubs as I make it through mine quite quickly considering I make use of 2-3 scoops relying on the recipes I'm making. In conclusion I can guarantee this item and also extremely recommend it. With the Rite-Flex Collegen Peptides I have actually observed my skin was looking much better after a few weeks, include it to your coffee or morning meal. Gotten a bathtub for my better half to attempt as well as she vows blind that several of the little folds in her skin have disappeared.

Texas Sport Supplement Company Owner Pleads Guilty to Unlawful Distribution of Steroid-Like Drugs - Department of Justice

Texas Sport Supplement Company Owner Pleads Guilty to Unlawful Distribution of Steroid-Like Drugs.

Posted: Tue, 22 Dec 2020 08:00:00 GMT [source]

Some researches have actually suggested that autoimmune diseases like rheumatoid joint inflammation may be dealt with by taking a foreign antigen by mouth, which might dampen down your body immune system's reaction. Taking collagen by mouth may present some chemicals that create joint inflammation right into your body and produce dental tolerance to these antigens, lowering the effects of inflammatory arthritis. Glycoproteins where the sialic acid has actually been eliminated are designated by the prefix asialo-, e.g. asialo-α1-acid glycoprotein, as well as asialofetuin. Removal of both sialic acid and galactose results in asialo-agalactoglycoproteins.

Currently, the two most commonly used compounds in use for sports are Dianabol and Prednisolone. These compounds are available over the counter and are prescribed to athletes by athletic trainers and doctors without any prescription. Anabolic steroids are banned by the Olympic Games and other major sporting associations. It is against the law for athletes to use anabolic steroids if they are participating in sanctioned sports. Therefore, it is against the rules to give an anabolic drug to an athlete without a prescription from a licensed physician.

Lamb submaxillary glycoprotein, collagen, fish antifreeze glycoproteins and potato lectin are O-glycoproteins (or O-glycosylproteins). collagens, fish antifreeze glycoproteins, lamb submaxillary glycoproteins], as well as those that contain oligosaccharides that cansist of duplicating devices of N-acetyllactosamine (e.g. band 3 of the human erythrocyte membrane layer). Optimization of manufacturing of protease by Lactobacillus plantarum SK from bekasam with response surface area technique.

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2 notes · View notes

ramiebread86 · 3 years

Text

Liquid Peptides

Collagen

Content

Best Examined Products.

Cardio Lowers Body Fat.

Select Products.

18rik Peptide.

In order to figure out which enteral feed is ideal suited to a client; the dietitian will embark on an extensive analysis of dietary status as well as current medical problem. The prescription of the feed is tailored to meet specific requirements based upon a persons' particular dietary needs and also the objectives of the intervention. Relevant medical details must be sent with the demand, consisting of professional indicator for testing, appropriate symptoms as well as past medical history. NT-proBNP is released into the circulation in equal amounts to the active hormonal agent yet is significantly a lot more stable as well as for this reason creates an excellent marker of BNP output. In heart failure the heart can not pump highly enough for the body's needs, the heart walls are stretched and liquid begins to build up creating back stress and also therefore a lot more BNP to be released. In human beings there are ~ 90 genes inscribing neuropeptide precursors, which are processed to ~ 100 bioactive neuropeptides. Neuropeptides typically co-exist with other natural chemicals in specified cell populaces, however are included in different storage blisters.

Does LGD 4033 cause gyno?

As anticipated, the differences in proteolytic tasks and also healthy protein hydrolysis patterns are much more noticeable when contrasting different Lactobacillus species. A comparable observation was made when contrasting 14 stress of Lb. It is currently acknowledged that diet plays a vital duty in the maintenance of our wellness condition. Listed below, several of the technological, regulative, and also commercial difficulties to bring AMP-based drugs into the clinical development are highlighted. Other than straight management of AMPs, there are several efforts continuous to use agents to raise the endogenous production of AMPs by the body in order to boost the inherent immune feedbacks as well as therefore battle infections.

Best Examined Items.

If unable to send example right away, freeze at -20 ° C and send out at ambient temperature level in the message. For long-term storage space (e.g. to set samples), we advise cold at -80 ° C.

This will certainly take around 1 day, depending on example focus. These initial data will certainly enable us to review the moment and the experimental conditions (i.e. sort of classified centers, optimum healthy protein, buffer concentration as well as pH) required to obtain a high resolution architectural determination on the individual's protein. There were no differences in pain or useful scores throughout the trial, yet there were distinctions at time points which favoured the collagen group when feature was determined in a second way.

Cardio Lowers Body Fat.

You can think about it as the adhesive that holds all these points together. Actually, the word collagen originates from the Greek word "kólla," which implies glue. Mix 1-2 scoops into a large cup of water, tea, coffee or juice or contribute to foods such as gruel, soups and also shakes. When a peptide consists of an internal proline, strong ion collection due to inner cleavage are observed, extending from the proline in the direction of the C terminus. The very first NMR experiments obtained will certainly check out the state of the healthy protein as well as it's viability for further study at the selected NMR healthy protein focus, getting 1D 1H and/or 2D 15N HSQC ranges.

The carboxylic team loses the oxygen and hydrogen while the thiol group loses its hydrogen and also a thioester bond is formed. Based upon the stereochemistry of the anomeric carbon or its alignment precede, a glycosidic bond can either be an alpha-bond or a beta-bond. In an O-glycosidic link, the carbonyl team of carbohydrates reacts with the hydroxyl group of one more substance.

Pick Items.

This leads to a compound in which the sugar or carbohydrate residue is attached to the oxygen of the various other substance, therefore the name O-glycosidic bond. For arbitrary non-fasting urine collections, results are highly associated with blended meal C-peptide, with high sensitivity and uniqueness for identifying medically appropriate thresholds. Steady for 3 days in Boric acid containers at ambient temperature.

In order to get to the cytoplasmic membrane layer of Gram-negative microorganisms, AMPs have to initially translocate via the external membrane. This design recommends that, due to better fondness for the LPS, AMPs displace the divalent cations and also bind to the LPS. By being bulky, the AMPs after that trigger short-term splits and permeabilize the external membrane, consequently allowing passage of the peptide itself across the membrane.

" I am exploring my legal choices, in regards to where I stand and also what I can do.

Responsible sporting activities nutrition producers and stores guarantee their items are extremely clearly identified and abide by EU legislation.

" These business require to be frightened to place things like ostarine into their products", he suggests.

Basically all performance-enhancing compounds that are banned by organisations like WADA and the IOC are also outlawed available in the European Union.

' you can find more information on highgrade labs's UK bacteriostatic water 10ml here. from the make-up, classifying to the marketing and advertising has to follow the EU regulations implemented to shield consumers.

https://highgrade-labs.com/product/sterile-water-2ml/ could cost me a lot of money as well as I'm not sure I can afford to do that.

Neuropeptides are held within big dense-core vesicles throughout the cell body, whereas natural chemicals are contained in tiny blisters situated at synapses. The Open College is integrated by Royal Charter, an excluded charity in England & Wales as well as a charity registered in Scotland. The Open College is authorised as well as managed by the Financial Conduct Authority in connection with its second activity of credit report broking. Not all set for University study after that search over 900 free programs on OpenLearn and also register to our newsletterto find out about brand-new totally free training courses as they are released. After a month of usage can observe nicer look of skin, nails and also hair. I do like it as well as am always trying to include collagen to my diet now im aging and yes I would utilize this once again.

18rik Peptide.

youtube

The Sarms Holy Bible.

Selective androgens, including SARMs, are a new class of compounds known as androgens. These compounds were initially discovered in the 1970s by scientists hoping to find a way to treat enlarged prostate (benign prostatic hypertrophy). They worked out how to convert the ostarine amino acid into an inactive form that was inactive in the prostate and therefore not harmful to the prostate. Since then, collaborating using highgrade-labs.com Shop Uk needle with 1ml fixed needle syringe have shown great interest in the properties of SARMs and in how they might be beneficial to men with erectile dysfunction.

Test 4 included 29 individuals with moderate to moderate osteo arthritis of the knee. Participants were given either a collagen formula (Fortigel ®) or a placebo for 24 weeks. Those that received collagen reported a higher decrease in pain. In this test, 250 individuals with osteoarthritis of the knee were randomised to receive either 10 g collagen hydrolysate or a placebo daily for six months. This trial consisted of 389 people with osteoarthritis throughout 20 websites in the UK, U.S.A. and also Germany.

Rick Collins Esq: Are SARMs legal? - generationiron.com

Rick Collins Esq: Are SARMs legal?.

Posted: Mon, 21 Dec 2020 08:00:00 GMT [source]

Using Lactobacillus stress for BAP manufacturing is a technique that still suffers from constraints. Applications of BAPs created by Lactobacillus species relying on the manufacturing approach.

Individuals were randomised to get either 10 g of collagen hydrolysate or placebo tablet computers for 24 weeks. Kind II collagen revealed less inflamed joints, joint inflammation and also better stroll time in only one of the tests versus a placebo. Four trials examined collagen versus a placebo and also one checked it versus methotrexate. The tests for entailed between 60 and 503 individuals with rheumatoid arthritis.

I can not see the difference that closely because nobody understands your face as you do but I can absolutely see a difference in her skin tone, specifically when she grins. So, seemingly it not just gives assist with your bones and also joints etc however appears to plump your skin. We suggest making collagen component of your everyday regimen as well as for the long-term to see ideal results.

It's such a terrific method to get all the goodness throughout all foods and also beverages! I do wish it came in larger tubs as I make it through mine pretty fast considering I use 2-3 scoops depending upon the recipes I'm making. All in all I can attest this product as well as highly advise it. With the Rite-Flex Collegen Peptides I have seen my skin was looking far better after a couple of weeks, add it to your coffee or morning meal. Ordered a tub for my spouse to try and she swears blind that several of the little creases in her skin have actually vanished.

Texas Sport Supplement Company Owner Pleads Guilty to Unlawful Distribution of Steroid-Like Drugs - Department of Justice

Texas Sport Supplement Company Owner Pleads Guilty to Unlawful Distribution of Steroid-Like Drugs.

Posted: Tue, 22 Dec 2020 08:00:00 GMT [source]

Some research studies have actually recommended that autoimmune diseases like rheumatoid joint inflammation might be treated by taking an international antigen by mouth, which could wet down your immune system's response. Taking collagen by mouth might introduce some chemicals that trigger joint inflammation right into your body as well as create dental resistance to these antigens, reducing the effects of inflammatory joint inflammation. Glycoproteins where the sialic acid has actually been eliminated are marked by the prefix asialo-, e.g. asialo-α1-acid glycoprotein, as well as asialofetuin. Removal of both sialic acid and galactose lead to asialo-agalactoglycoproteins.

Lamb submaxillary glycoprotein, collagen, fish antifreeze glycoproteins and also potato lectin are O-glycoproteins (or O-glycosylproteins). collagens, fish antifreeze glycoproteins, lamb submaxillary glycoproteins], as well as those that contain oligosaccharides that cansist of duplicating systems of N-acetyllactosamine (e.g. band 3 of the human erythrocyte membrane layer). Optimization of production of protease by Lactobacillus plantarum SK from bekasam with reaction surface approach.

2 notes · View notes

beccasissy69 · 3 years

Photo

I already posted something from this year, but I also need to go back and detail my training! 2021 began with my watching some pretty intense lesbian videos while hypno (pretty aggressive sub/dom lesbian hypno!) played in the background.

The first was a 20 minute makeup session as two women kissed and kissed and kissed and moved around their apartment and I was humping my pillow during it, then the second was a steamier and sultrier video that was focused more on erotic touching (I’d expected it to involve penetration!) and I was teasing myself with my glass dildo while I watched.

I was just gone from the start, I don’t know if it was because it was my first session after a little break, just because it was so intense or a mixture of the two but I was dripping straight away. At one point, one woman had her legs splayed on the bed and the other stroked her nail down her bare inner thing and I shivered and almost came!

Tuesday was intimate videos with old guys involving kissing, rimming and b*all licking/sucking (I was to skip around and find these specific actions) while teasing myself with a vibe and smacking my nipples with a paddle.

Goddess teased me and then gave me the name of a studio and an actress to look for. At the start, I just couldn’t find the right ones. After about 10 minutes, that changed and I struck gold pretty consistently. I’d also wondered how I’d react but I really enjoyed it, it was quieter than full sex and much more intimate (especially the rimjobs which were so soft!).

I leaked pretty heavily (having a vibe inserted tends to do that) and smacking my nipples, which were very red by the end, was wonderful. After about 45 minutes my vibe ran out of juice 😾 and I switched to my last video which was a compilation of old man/young women kissing which was just insane. I think I was more turned on during that video then when I had the vibe in 🤣

Which brings me to my Wednesday/Thursday task which was to write the story I posted yesterday.

Goddess gave me the outline and told me to include the prep, date and result. She gave me two days and said that it would help her judge my progress and what she would focus on this year.

Writing it was pretty tricky, I was constantly aroused and dripping and it took much longer then I thought it would because it made me really think about what I wanted and how I wanted it. I also tried to be honest and not attempt to tailor it to what I thought Goddess wanted to read. I finished it on Thursday and then edited it a little (I still went slightly over the length I’d been given ) and when I was done, I had a huge wet patch on my skirt which I took to be a good sign.

I was nervous throughout today because I didn’t know if Goddess would approve but luckily, as you can see in the notes on the post, she loved it!

#submissivesissybimbohousewife

2 notes · View notes

stone-man-warrior · 3 years

Text

December 30, 2020: 2:42:

Francis & Richard Taylor

600 Jackpine Dr.

Grants Pass Oregon

97526

End of the Road.

=============================================

What can be said about the Taylor residence?

Google can be said.

Thunderbird’s Episodes can be said.

That “Recommended” label at the top of my search can be said.

This Google email from the other day can be said:

This old one fits in somewhere too:

“The End of the Road” is going to prove to be a big deal.

The Taylor residence is at the end of the road.

“Why is the Taylor residence at the end of the road important?”

Too many reasons.

Some reasons:

If the Taylor’s are still alive, they are the longest surviving resident’s of Jackpine Dr. having moved in at 600 in 1995, to my best understanding.

If they are not alive, then I am the longest surviving resident of Jackpine Dr. having moved here in 1996.

There is no reason to believe the Taylor’s are alive. They have not been seen for more than a year, other people have been seen driving the Taylor vehicles.

The Taylor’s are/were some of the hardest of the hardcore terror murder cells for more than twenty years.

They have a dungeon sort of hole in the ground at that address, is inside of the fresh water well shed, beneath the ground, under a trap door in the floor of the well-house structure.

The Taylor’s have a old Ford Econoline Phone Company Service Van with a cage inside, the inner door-handles removed, and the van is equipped with a full size whaling harpoon taken from a whaling ship and mounted inside the van at the side doors. The van is equipped with anchor studs on all four corners attached to the frame, where they are extended into the ground at pre-arranged places where such anchoring is prepared for with some holes in the ground. One such place is the bottom of Interstate 5 southbound exit 55 where the Harpoon Van is parked, anchored, the door opens. the harpoon is shot at passing vehicles at the driver, the cars crash beneath the over-pass of the freeway, multi-car pile-up happens, State Police are there to capture the survivors. ODOT is there to clear away the wreckage with help from Wrecking Contractors such as Three Boy’s Towing. American Medical Response is on the scene for Oxcart Service to the Asante, for torture and intel gathering, and extermination of the victims who were injured.

Besides all that, the Taylor’s live next door to Grants Pass Community Church, and that place is even worse than Taylor’s.

“End of the Road”

Also, when my phone line was stolen, I called Centurylink demanding they put the phone line back, the phone line was stolen by Centurylink, who claimed “We need the phone line more than you need the phone line”. When I demanded they put it back, they say: “Sorry, you are at the End of the Line”. So, that is the whale impaled by the harpoon, on the “End of the Line”, by the “End of the Road”.

Fran Taylor drove a Red Chevrolet Impala for a long time.

Much can be said, and has been said for many years, and now, “Google” and “Thunderbird’s” can also be said when talking about 600 Jackpine Dr. at the Taylor terror cell.

It really is a big deal at the End of the Road, and has been for more than two decades.

no one goes in or out of the Taylor residence on Jackpine anymore that I can see. Who ever is living there is using alternate custom tailored entrance to 600 Jackpine from the Church parking lot on the opposite street on Russell road for ingress and egress.

This person here is part of whatever shenanigan‘s Google is pulling. It’s not a small thing, is a Big Deal.

This person bobbj77 may turn out to be Janice “Jay-Bob” Freeberg, the terror air force General. Is part of terror military branches of unconventional armed forces based here in Oregon, who do Global terror.

Janice “Jay Bob” uses a alias online “Chubacca” (I am not sure of the spelling, could be various ways) because “Chewy” (another Spelling, Aaron) is a “Jedi Space Trafficking Pilot”, that’s why.

Freeberg is presumed to have been killed already, but that is difficult to know for sure, around here, there is no “death report”, so, the only way to know someone could be dead, is when you don‘t see them around anymore, however, even that is not enough to know someone died. The terror bastards make facial impressions with plaster molds of each terror soldier, so, even if one dies, they can dress someone up to mimic the deceased terror soldier. Same is true for Citizen victims, the masks are used to lure family members of someone who they killed, or took captive, or, sometimes the terror bastards are able to convince other people to have a plaster mold made of their faces. It’s a complex, multi-faceted idea they came up with, is used for planning attack on very large families, so, one plaster mold, makes the mask, that opens all of the doors of the entire, large family, like a key does, when “Uncle Bob” is outside, he is invited into the house, because they fooled “Uncle Bob”, convinced him that a plaster mold of his face was a good idea to make.

I’ll wager that you can have such a mask mold made for you at The Mall of America at one of the stores, for a fee, and they will “Vault, and Preserve” the plaster mold of your face for you, so that the generations of your family who follow in the coming ages will have some solid thing to know who their ancestors were, so long ago. Comes with Family Tree, and Genealogy Report, and, latest copy of “Who’s Who in America, Among the (your last name goes here) Family.”

==========

Real terrorism has it worked out where when there is a “Heartfelt” news story about someone who offered a kidney to a stranger, and the doctor took the wrong kidney, then the donor and intended recipient both say “I forgive the doctor, it was an honest mistake, to Err is human“, that, is a command order.

ERR

Terror Err

The “Err” is “Air”.

Pirates say: Arrgghh!.

Kidney beans make “Gas”.

The Choir tugs at your heartstrings.

There is an ER involved in the news story.

The doctor was “forgiven”, it’s a Christian Attack.

“To Err is Human“ is a terror command that can be traced in old news stories.

It’s a “Stairway to Heaven“. There are thousands of them that can be written in Pyramid Form, such as that above. That is one of the ways the terror army can be certain that the command order is for real, not a trick, or “Copy Cat” fake order.

I think there is a specific number of “course” for building the text Pyramid from “Free Masonry”. I don’t have the specifics about that. I know the basics. I used “9 course” for a stop at “The 9th Hole” to have some “Airplane Vodka w/orange juice and some ice” while on course.

“O-Range” = Holy Range = Holy See = The Universe = The Place Where Orion Hunts = A Ryan‘s Hunting Grounds = The Lion’s Range = The King, See?

(”A Ryan!“ is what the children say when Ted Nugent shows up with Kid Rock and Sarah Palin (”Sara a pail in the house?”) with the whole Safari terror cell, and tells the captive children: “You have thirty seconds to out-run this African Lion...” then he only counts to ten.)

(you could take the kidney Tug Boat a long way into the “Russian Mother of all Hoaxes” to see where it goes, and from whence it came)

(4:46 pm: Airplane fly’s over my house in response to “Google scout online backdoor spies” getting “Airplane Vodka” blips on their Google Powered RADAR)

=================

4:50 pm:

In other news, at the Walmart, they have a potato chip product on sale there, they are some kind super over processed potato product shaped in the form of a squared rectangular prism hollow shape, “Rancher’s?” “Ranch Ranger’s?”... I forget, but the idea is that you can now insert the chip into the Ranch Dressing Dip, and begin to suck all of the Ranch you care to choke on, through the straw shaped chip product. Amazing.

==================

5:30 pm:

Local Update:

I walk to the mailbox was enlightening.

Unbelievable. After saying some things about Freeberg and “Chewy”, inside of one of the two addressed mailboxes I have on the mailbox bank on the road contained a advertisement that says: “Chewy” on it!.

Must be special delivery.

That, and a advertisement that says I can get a free meal at Elmer’s Restaurant.

Both were inside a mailbox I don‘t use anymore, the house it goes to is vacant unless I want to stay there. Someone has removed the contents of that other mailbox, I left some items in it, I’ll keep that private, just in case. So, that one is empty now, there was a rubber band I keep wrapped around the box lid so the mail carrier and others won’t bother it, but, that did not keep the thief out. Rubberband’s and Scotch Tape don‘t go as far as they once did.

All sign’s point to my daughter is held prisoner somewhere, without indication of where to look. In the past, this kind of thing was done with some small personal information tid-bits to get me to go rescue my family at various places, Taylor’s at 600 “End of the Road” was one of them. They put what looks like clues left by a family member, then, I make a phone call, then, on the phone call, Taylor’s have a Police Surveillance Stingray they stole from the state police they killed a long time ago. With that, the Taylor’s insert vocal performance scripted spoken words into a cellular phone call, along with the conversation to the family member I am concerned about. That Stingray along with those small tid-bits of personal information they insert and left laying around for me to find, that were also gained from that same and other Stingray’s, is used to make me “Know” where my family is held captive, and is the reason why I made the phone call to check to see if everyone is OK.

So I go to Taylor’s and into the fresh water-well building to see where my family is at, tear up the fake floor, and see that there are indeed some people in that hole under the floor in the well house at Taylor’s. I get those people out, none of them are my family. I look around, go home, call again to the family. They say everything is OK. I call the police, they tell me Taylor’s says I trespassed. The Sheriff comes to my house, looking for the people that were in that hole in the well house at Taylor’s End of the Road.

The Sheriff is wanting to arrest me, but there are missing prisoners from the well house, he does not have time to arrest me, he needs to go find those prisoners, who all took off running like a bat out of hell when the floor opened up. The Sheriff only wants to put them back into that hole in the Taylor’s water-well house utility building dungeon.

But that was a long time ago, there are no more people to capture to put into the hole in the Taylor’s water-well building. All of the US Citizens are all dead, killed by the Canadian terror army, or are held captive somewhere.

Other than the mail box having been tampered with, it was quiet, cold, and drizzly. Some mechanical moaning sounds were heard from the north west.

A single solitary Canadian Goose flew from the north to the south, seemingly in some kind of distress, very concerned sounding goose flew overhead, did not sound like a happy goose.

Some lights came on at Chapman‘s County Court’s terror cell at the Horse Stable area, as they do most days at about this time of day.

That, and my medical insurance bill arrived.

I should have received my Pacific Power Bill by now, but that is not in the mailbox this week. It usually shows up around the 27th or so, give or take holiday considerations, Clyde Baum, and mail thief terror spies.

=============================================

Skip a head to the 4:00 mark to see what is going on, pay attention to the 4:09 mark.

youtube

(I was there at that interview, I was supposed to be the one asking the questions, but got hijacked, that other kid took over, they put me under that orange table. There was black convertible car with push-button transmission that brought me there, I think it was Jim Morison’s car, but he had jumped out of the Capital Record’s Building top floors years before that interview took place)

===========================

News Flash! This Just In!

That part about having been there at that interview was accompanied by incoming phone call from SAGClubMed Junket Services and Sword Sharpening at Pain Specialists of Southern Oregon.

Incoming at 6:33 pm from “The Doctor”. They left a message. I’ll have a look later... they can wait out in the rain and cold for awhile.

That call means that the Safari “SOPS” (that’s what the pain center is called) terror cell is at Chartrand’s and at Strong’s terror cells. also going to be at 598 Jackpine, and at Sparacino’s at 545. If any high roller’s are with them, then, that is exactly who I want to speak with personally. I don‘t want to fuck around with scalawags.

I want the Captain’s head on platter.

Those persons will be at Wesley Crowel’s terror cell, at 549 Jackpine.

The Captain of the ship is that pilot of that King Air Beachcraft the flew overhead yesterday. It’s at Grants Pass Municipal Airport most likely, roled into a goat barn somewhere nearby.

I smell Rendata terror. Merlin Oregon.

=====

7:13 pm:

Mick Taylor shows up on Secret Decoder Ring RADAR.

youtube

===========

7:17 pm:

For the Hail Mary:

Check surveillance video at Grants Pass Walmart 12-29-2020 at about 3:30 pm-ish at the dairy where the milk is at. The subject suspect is a tall person 5′ 11″ or taller, is about 240 pounds (could be sterling, so, about 17 Stone, give or take a Jagger). Subject is wearing Road Kill Hat. Some kind of dead animal with long tail draped across the left shoulder, grey/blonde sort of dead, road kill hat.

Smells Mickey to me.

==============

8:00 pm:

Here she comes now....

(steer clear of the karaoke version on this one, these guys had special breathing apparatus to get through it alive)

youtube

===================

8:10 pm:

I’m still trying to reach Pittsburgh.

I don‘t mean to be cold about it, it’s just so urgent is all.

You do remember the Thunderbird’s Episode 2, Pit of Peril... with that giant elephant roach that tossed all of the US Military into that hole don‘t you?

LBJ? Remember?

I remember MK Ultra School. They made us dive under a boat, into a hole in the bottom, to swim over to another hole in the boat so we could be put into a converted decompression chamber turned sound studio on a US navy boat in LA Harbor.

“You need a bag to survive” they said as we went into the water with a baggie filled with air so we could make it to the other hole in the bottom of the boat.

I also learned: “What can be said about this?” lesson for problem solving.

That lesson “What can be said about this?”, I am convinced, is the Mother, of the Mother of all Russian Hoaxes. That lesson, is how they built the Russian Fractal, and all of the layers of stacked up connected lies of which the Russian Mother of all Hoaxes is composed of.

Consider that when an apple is the subject for the lesson, the students will goof off, and include some borderline qualifying answers, but there are no wrong answers, ever, those are the rules.

So, that apple has a core.

Peanut butter is on the list.

So is sharp cheddar cheese, and pie.

It’s the beginnings of Fractal Soup. Soon, peanut butter cake happens on the list, Frank Zappa lived on Wilbur Ave., he says “meat cake”, it’s been in the fridge for awhile, looks like meat, looks like cake... at 2:00 am, must be meat-cake. Marie Antoinette is there, that hot chick at the end of the bar before it closed. “Let them eat cake”...

There is no apple pie anymore... the Fractal ate it.

“Why is Uncle Fester’s head in the refrigerator?” happens next day, or three.

You can get there from an apple, and take over the world. it turns out.

That’s how they built it.

================================================

8:49 pm:

I remember now.

“We need songs to fill in these gaps” they said.

It happened over and over again throughout all of the bands and songwriting I did throughout my life. “Orders from On High”... It just sometimes was by a request from someone I knew, or friends of band mates. The seeds for the ideas for musical content often were from a visit to a music store.

Look at the producers name: Garry Necessity

Look at who is hosting the show: John Denver, Mile High City. That means Royal Canadian Mounted Police in 1973 in USA, either for real, or as a subliminal message with “Denver Necessity”.

“Bob Lolly” is Vatican Choir, not a real name, it’s the “Law Lee”... “Wind-Word Ho!” (”Wind Word Whore” initialized WWII because of the scales are not working: II = “ locked and loaded initialization sequence begins in 1973 here with that presentation, to build that Russian Mother of all Hoaxes... it started right there, that night, at Midnight ) as stated by RCMP from Windsor Castle, Windsor Royalty, all symbolized with a few names, a band called Aarrgent, a song about the prize, heads, w/ US Flag lit up in back, no blue field, just bulbous stripes. (see Thunderbird’s episode 5 Edge of Impact at 44:33 mark. There is the place where in 1965 the plan to collect human heads “water-member” = US Citizens for this specific Fractal View only. There, that bulb on Tin Tin‘s head is the same as the Flag background made of bulbs at “Denver Necessity Midnight Special Aarrrgent’s Meating of the Minds”. “Burt Sugarman“ is how we know it’s a “meating of the Mine’s”

youtube

The thing above is very rough decode of a complicated mess.

Maybe I’ll find more parts to the puzzle and clean up the explanation at another time. That is a big piece of puzzle parts, lots of glue is splattered all over the place right there. Close to the Sun. Short on time right now, so I put here rough.

=====

9:34 pm:

I am stuck at a place where the terror attack was going on, throughout the 1970′s and beyond that... they were doing “3% Taking”, at places where US Citizens were drawn to, three percent of a given population killed, ID’s processed, look-a-like replacements found in Canada to carry on as murdered US Citizens, using the names of the victims.

Then, at some point there is a place when evidence will show in news stories at the time they switched focus of “3% Taking” to the “$5 Walmart Service Counter Exchange Program” where each human head was worth $5.

There will be a way to see it in news stories, that $5 transition, or maybe it was a $5 addition to the Russian Hoax of attack language. I suggest 2001 is that time when “$5/head” was added to the Hoax Language, “The Huckleberry Fin“, “The V’s, Flying” (Pope plays the blues turnaround with his Flying V at Trade Center). So, “What can be said about $5?” needs to happen, w/focus at 2001 news stories to match the output of that.

For contemporary Presidential considerations, that bulb on Tin Tin‘s head marks a time when “A Head = A Bulb”, and the “Bulbs in Line are US Citizens in Line” when that is carried over to the “Denver Necessity” bulb-flag. So, everything Trump says about Incandescent Light Bulbs could prove as treasonous terror command language. Then, for a 2020 election view, Mike Bloomberg is actually Ronnie James Dio (for real) and the song “Last In Line” develops new importance and meaning far after it’s original release date.

There is a Mother Load of information contained within that Argent Midnight Special performance of Hold Your Head Up. Heads = Bulbs from that point on in some circles for command language. Further consideration is that the “Bulb” is a Vatican High Command idea, all other iterations done by others downstream in the command chain are lower in rank. The word bulb, it turns out, is very clean, I can‘t think of other ways to say “bulb”, though there are many different kinds of bulbs, it seems to always be a bulb, like the Jim Dunlop, the Pope’s change sometimes, but the Jim Dunlop is always the Jim Dunlop.

Right there, there is a folk story about a Carpenter who needs to change a light bulb, he builds a scaffold to reach the lightbulb that is way, way up high. Brings lumber, nails, an apprentice, and a light bulb. They work to change the bulb, get that done, take the scaffold apart, and go home. They can see now, after changing the bulb. Laborer’s Union comes by, someone pushes a broom to clean up some dropped nails and saw dust. Decorators Union comes by, puts the furniture back where it goes, and shuts the curtains.

There is an argument that happens at the Carpenter’s Union District Counsel HQ when the Electrician’s Union finds out that the Carpenter changed out the light bulb. The Electrician is supposed to change the bulb, not the Carpenter. So they argue. The Carpenter just wanted to go home, did not want to wait for the electrician. The Electrician said he could not wait around for the Carpenter to build the scaffold. Please Wait. Please Wait. Please Wait. Please Wait. Please Wait...

Communication Contractors Union gets involved, it’s an argument, so, that’s their thing they do, are are upset that they were not consulted about the Carpenter vs Electrician argument.... so....Please Wait happened in the communications with a glitch.

Those Midnight Specials were all Live Performances it looks like, and is the way I recall from watching back then. There is no Lip Sync going on. That is also a substantial thing to consider, all is live, not exactly the way people, the “Fans”, heard the music from the radio air play. The title of the show, is like it represents the time period between when the bulb burned out, and the Carpenter replaced it. “Midnight Special”, a time of darkness, has a lot meaning, depth. The absence of the Orange 12 on the Walmart Two-Hour Clock is noted, or, Fast Forward, to the Presence, of the Orange 12 on the Walmart Two-Hour Clock.

“The Object”

From the Led Zeppelin Presence album.

I have a bad feeling about the upcoming 10:00 hour tomorrow. it will be 10:00 for 24 hours somewhere in the world, twice. All green, for 48 hours, Walmart style, but with a 50/50 Bar from the ice cream truck, in the neighborhood.

Starting very soon.

It’s 10:49 pm. 12-30-2020.

=========================================

11:34 pm:

Local Update:

I took a walk to the road, it’s wet, not a as cold as it was a few hours ago, silent, only the sound of drops of water onto the ground from trees and rain gutters.

That place were Monroe’s cleared that brush is all arranged like a little not so private camp site. There is a log on the edge of the camp site, some chairs are there around a central camp fire that has been maintained to burn a little bit, just smoldering away, nice and easy.

But I see more than the face value of the charade, the bamboo was all cut away for a reason, not to maintain privacy that’s for sure. I see “Cam Sight” made with newly opened up viewing to the path I walk from a variety of vantage points there at Monroe’s. I get along to that spot on my walk, and the conditions change ever so slightly. The water well they have over there is either worn out and makes a lot of whistley noises, or, is a speaker playing an annoying and steady whine of a whistle sound, so, as I get there, to the “Cam Sight”, that is when the water well pump there starts, or stops, just as I get to that spot to see if it’s safe to pass by on my walk. Just now, as I went down the driveway there was an odor of rubber burning, like a tire smells when it burns, but only lasted a very short time before the odor was no longer there. Then my belly started to rumble, I could here the sound of my stomach, so, there is that gas the does that over there, only in that part of the driveway, so I come home and that symptom is not happening now. There still is a A-1 Exterminators Van over there in the driveway full of poisons. They use it as a cover for some of the poisons they are using on me for the past five years.

As I walked by the Cam Sight a second time, a yard light switched on over there, there is a Suzuki Samuri, a dark grey one they keep moving around the yard to get me to say “Samuri” so they can record the sounds from the implanted microphone transmitter that is in my jaw. They use the edited recordings to fool the federal fools who don‘t learn no matter how many they send over here and are killed at Monroe’s or by the local fake authorities.

So, I pass by a camera, that signals the Monroe assholes to turn on a light where there is a Samuri in the spot light, to get a reaction from me, while making confusion service about a different Suzuki Samuri at Clyde Baum’s house at 333 which is also parked not far away from a travel trailer. The one at Clyde’s is a white one. For more confusion, that grey Samuri is the second stolen Samuri they have had there, the first one was a black one. There were a few months between Samuri’s at Monroe’s, so, that is when Clyde got a hold of the white one to put on display to entertain the federal fools with, no one ever drives either one, they are both stolen and on display as bait that catches federal fools.

====================

12-31-2020: 12:26 am:

Terror bastards are still changing what I write. The shit needs to stay as written, it’s national security, is not fucking game... they change smaller and smaller little details, but ones that have consistently been done.

Parentheses are important, I close them out. The bastards are removing the closed parentheses, and there are thousands of examples on this account where the parentheses are hijacked, stolen.

They double the text. Two instances of the same word.

When I use the spell check for a spelling error, the edit does not stay, or is changed to a different choice in the suggested list.

The word “The” is inserted all over the place where I use any word that starts with “TH”.

“He” is inserted throughout my writings by some terror religious cult bastards.

Sometimes the entire lines of text vanishes and on occasion a whole lengthy report is yanked away as I write, is deleted and gone.

For people who might help, you should know there is command orders that come through Twitter for these kinds of changes to happen. You have to find a graphic that shows some quoted text on Twitter, the people who do Nikki Haley’s Twitter account used to make a lot of these commands with a graphic that shows a very large single non closing “Curly Quote Mark” in a graphic where some quoted text is made to look very pretty, all typeset nice and neat, but with only one of the quote marks that are supposed to be there. Those are command orders to go fuck with someone’s text entries. Many accounts at Twitter do that same thing to make that command order.

Tumblr is made difficult to use intentionally. The whole Google controlled internet is involved with keeping people silenced. When there are no other ways to get help, when FBI.tips.gov has failed as it has, then the people will turn to social media for help. Twitter makes for a handy trap to find and remove such people who make online reports simply because all of the people we need to reach are all right there, but are just out of reach on the other side of the computer screen. People in distress reach out, are tracked down, hunted from IP address, and killed. So I choose Tumblr because it’s free to use, any place where a person needs to make reports of eye-witness must be a place that will stay there even if the author of the information is killed, so, if that happens when the reporting is done on a pay to use writing web site, then the bill won’t be paid, and the information is deleted for non payment, but the person is dead, is trying to help others to solve problems, and those who control the websites, simply refuse to offer any help at all, only send assassins, they could be held liable for something that is written on their “pay as you go” web sites, so they are not going to get involved with trivial national or Global mass murder terrorism presented in detail on their platforms. It’s much safer financially to hit a delete button than to solve Global Terrorism, that is hard work, and unfortunately there is no one on Earth willing to solve any problems, not until they are held captive by the Global Terrorists, then, “I understand now” is the famous last words, while the henchmen grease the grooves where the blade comes down, works much smoother with some lube.

I chose Tumblr because it’s free and will stay when I am killed by the terrorists, I stay at Tumblr for other reasons, because it’s a trap. The reason is that in order to get my content downloaded onto my computer, I have to go to each individual entry, and download each one all by it’s self. Tumblr is difficult and clumsy to use on purpose, and they trap you here, so that the effort to download something like 800 entries is too daunting especially when my life depends on me continuing to spend my time adding more detail to help others to help me, not spending a month doing individual downloads of each page only to have spend additional time to re-post and reformat everything to fit into a different platform. That takes a lot of effort, I did that once already, a week to do about 300 posts, all day, just trying to make it fit from Google+ Format. The information presents differently on individual platforms. So, to retrieve the information so I can post it somewhere else is too time consuming. They do not offer a complete archive download here at Tumblr, and that is by design to keep me quiet. The controls are clumsy to make the information difficult to read, there are no choices for what font I might want, there is one font, the one you see here, no way to change to a serif font for easier reading, maybe the information will delete on it’s own by the way the place is set up all clumsy easy to make a mistake, and there people on the other side of the screen changing things as I am writing them down, live, while I write I see the words being changed out.

=======================

12-31-2020: 2:07 am:

This Premier Guitar Promotional email command order from Vatican Choir HQ serves as the Enormous Curly Quote I was referring to. It arrived 12-30-2020 at 1:15 pm.

That is Brian May and someone else, a “Videographer” as the story is told.

What it really is, is Curly, that bald man, from Three Stooges, he is with Queen of Curly, Brian May, to say: “Curly Quote Mark”, and that is me, and this Tumblr account. Might be Sir Brian May... have to turn it around backwards, and upside down to see what gender it is, so, send it over, I’ll give you a full report in the morning.

0 notes

troger · 3 years

Text

TLDR: How the Coronavirus Hacks the Immune System

At a laboratory in Manhattan, researchers have discovered how SARS-CoV-2 uses our defenses against us.

By James Somers

November 2, 2020

Some four billion years ago, in the shallow waters where life began, our earliest ancestors led lives of constant emergency. In a barren world, each single-celled amoeba was an inconceivably rich concentration of resources, and to live was to be beset by parasites. One of these, the giant Mimivirus, masqueraded as food; within four hours of being eaten, it could turn an amoeba into a virus factory. And yet, as the nineteenth-century mathematician Augustus de Morgan said, “Great fleas have little fleas upon their backs to bite ’em, and little fleas have lesser fleas, and so ad infinitum.” The Mimivirus had its own parasites, which sometimes followed it as it entered an amoeba. Once inside, they crippled the Mimivirus factory. This trick was so useful that, eventually, amoebas integrated the parasites’ genes into their own genomes, creating one of the earliest weapons in the immune system.

We tend to associate “survival of the fittest” with lions hunting antelope. But disease—the predation of parasites upon hosts—is actually the most potent force in evolution. “Every single phase of life has been selected to try to avoid parasitism,” Stephen Hedrick, an immunologist at the University of California, San Diego, told me. “It’s driven evolution as hard as it could be driven. Because it’s life or death all the time. And it’s a co-evolution.” Whenever a host develops an immune defense, it perversely rewards the survival of the very parasites that can defeat it. Hosts, meanwhile, tend to be at an evolutionary disadvantage. “Bacterial or viral populations are truly vast in size,” Robert Jack and Louis Du Pasquier write, in “Evolutionary Concepts in Immunology,” and the wide variation among them gives natural selection many candidate organisms upon which to work. Viruses and bacteria also reproduce half a million times faster than we do. Given this “generation gap,” Jack and Du Pasquier write, “one might well ask how on earth we could possibly have survived.”

A clue comes from the amoeba Dictyostelium discoideum. It spends much of its life marauding alone, eating things. But, when food is scarce, it releases molecules that serve as a flocking signal to others of its kind; the amoebas merge, forming a superorganism of as many as a hundred thousand members. For this multicellular “slime mold” to be effective, almost all the amoebas must give up their ability to eat, lest they prey on one another. The few that retain it don’t eat for themselves; rather, they swallow up debris and dispose of it to protect the organism. The other amoebas, freed from the burdens of offense and defense, form a “fruiting body” that releases spores for reproduction. Although none of the individuals would survive on their own, the collective thrives.

A human being is likewise a society of cells, with a coördinated defense. Our circulatory system doubles as a communications network; our blood vessels have an “endothelial” lining—a surface that is charged with the intelligent routing of immune cells. When ordinary cells are infected by a pathogen, they send signals to their neighbors, who pass them on until they reach the endothelial cells. In response, the blood vessels swell, creating off-ramps through which white blood cells, which are part of the immune system’s circulating defense force, can flow toward the site of infection. This is merely the beginning of our immune response.

Our bodies, like the United States government, make a startlingly large investment in defense. Our bone marrow produces billions of immune cells each day, and then discards most of them. Almost every one of our cells is perpetually scanning itself for evidence of invasion. The system is complex—ask a microbiologist about immunology and she’ll whistle, wishing you luck. Those who describe it often resort to metaphor. Contemplating the enormous amounts of information that it collects and synthesizes throughout the body, Jack and Du Pasquier suggest that “the immune system can be regarded, above all else, as a computational device.”

This device is so finely tuned that we seldom notice it at work. Our guts burble with foreign microbes outnumbering human cells roughly ten to one, but the good are seamlessly sorted from the bad; every day, some of our cells grow into cancers, but the immune system dispatches them before they become dangerous. On a recent camping trip, I was bitten three times by some kind of insect while putting my arm into a jacket sleeve. Who knows what entered my bloodstream. Almost immediately, three welts formed; a few minutes later, the welts came down. In moments like that, it is easy to assume that we hold the advantage over the parasites.

On Friday, March 6th, a purified sample of the novel coronavirus arrived at the laboratory of a virologist named Benjamin tenOever, at the Icahn School of Medicine, in East Harlem. Many virology labs focus on a single pathogen, but tenOever’s studies dozens of viruses and how they change the cells they infect. During the winter, tenOever and his team were focussed on the flu. But, as the coronavirus pandemic began to escalate in the U.S., they initiated a side project, infecting lung cells in a dish with sars-CoV-2, the virus that causes covid-19, and studying the results. TenOever posted their preliminary analysis to Twitter on March 14th. Within a week, a program manager at the Defense Department e-mailed to ask about the research. Two weeks later, Defense gave tenOever a $6.3-million grant to find out what the new virus was doing to our immune systems.

Born to Dutch parents, tenOever grew up in rural Ontario. Now forty-three, he approaches his work with an amused, easy confidence. On March 26th, he gathered his team and they discussed their plan. They would take half a dozen viruses—including sars, mers, and the new coronavirus—and induce infections in hosts, starting with cells in a petri dish and graduating to ferrets. They’d study the results to understand what made the new coronavirus unique. Their goal was to have results in three weeks.

The infections took place inside the lab’s Biosafety Level-3 facility, a series of nested rooms in which each is kept at a lower pressure than the one surrounding it, so that air flows inward and up an exhaust chute containing sensitive filters. In the “warm zone,” where there is always the danger of being exposed to a live virus, you must wear a gown, two sets of gloves, two sets of shoe covers, a respirator mask, a face shield, and a bouffant cap. You work with your arms under a hood, protected by an extra set of disposable sleeves. When you’re finished with your experiment, you disinfect this gear and throw it into an autoclave—a kind of kiln—where it cooks for twenty minutes. To return to the “cold zone,” you remove your shoe covers before stepping over a red line. In New York, at the end of March, these precautions had a whiff of the absurd: in a city where around three thousand new coronavirus cases were being diagnosed each day, you were more likely to be exposed to a highly pathogenic virus in your neighborhood.

A Ph.D. student named Daisy Hoagland, who had herself just recovered from a mild case of covid-19, prepared the samples for analysis. Using a shaker machine and test tubes loaded with sand and ceramic pellets, she turned a suspension of ferret lung cells—some from infected animals, and others from members of the control group—into a homogeneous juice, then separated the solution in a centrifuge that generated fifteen thousand g’s. It is painstaking work. (“I listen to a lot of podcasts,” Hoagland said.) Using a pipette, she carefully transferred the topmost layer, a pink liquid, into another tube, which she centrifuged again, until she had a purified sample of RNA. This she handed off to her colleagues Rasmus Møller and Maryline Panis for sequencing. The process takes sixteen hours to complete, and Møller, who during the height of the pandemic lived in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, often biked home at dawn over the Pulaski Bridge.

Whereas the sequencing of DNA defined molecular biology in the early two-thousands, the sequencing of RNA defines it today. If you imagine a cell as a kind of computer, then your DNA contains all the software that it could possibly run. It is a somewhat astonishing fact of life that the exact same DNA is shared by every cell in your body, from the skin to the brain; those cells differ in appearance and function because, in each of them, a molecular gizmo “transcribes” some DNA segments rather than others into molecules of single-stranded RNA. These bits of RNA are in turn used as the blueprints for proteins, the molecular machines that do most of a cell’s work. If DNA is your phone’s home screen, then transcription is like tapping an icon. By sampling the RNA present in a group of cells, researchers can see which programs those cells are running at that moment; by sampling it after the cells have been infected with a virus, they can see how that virus substitutes its own software.

TenOever’s team quickly discovered that sars-CoV-2 was uncannily good at disrupting cellular programming. A typical virus replaces less than one per cent of the software in the cells it infects. With sars-CoV-2, tenOever said, about sixty per cent of the RNA in an infected cell is of viral origin—“which is the highest I’ve ever seen. Polio comes close.” Among other things, the virus rewires the alarm system that cells use to warn others about infection. Normally, as part of what is known as the “innate” immune response—so called because it is genetically hardwired, and not tailored to a specific pathogen—a cell sends out two kinds of signals. One signal, carried by molecules called interferons, travels to neighboring cells, telling them to build defenses that slow viral spread. Another signal, transmitted through molecules called cytokines, gets a message to the circulatory system’s epithelial lining. The white blood cells summoned by this second signal don’t just eat invaders and infected cells; they also gather up their dismembered protein parts. Elsewhere in the immune system, these fragments are used to create virus-specific antibodies, as part of a sophisticated “adaptive” response that can take six or seven days to develop.

Usually, the viruses that humans care about are successful because they shut down both of these signalling programs. The coronavirus is different. “It seems to block only one of those two arms,” tenOever told me. It inhibits the interferon response but does nothing about the cytokines; it evades the local defenses but allows the cells it infects to call for reinforcements. White blood cells are powerful weapons: they arrive on an inflammatory tide, destroying cells on every side, clogging up passages with the wreckage. They are meant to be used selectively, on invaders that have been contained in a small area. With the coronavirus, they are deployed too widely—a carpet bombing, rather than a surgical strike. As they do their work, inflammation distends the lungs, and debris fills them like a fog.

In late May, tenOever’s team shared its findings in the biweekly journal Cell. In their article, they argued that it’s this imbalanced immune response that gives severe covid-19—which can sometimes cause blood clots, strange swelling in children, and ultra-inflammatory “cytokine storms”—the character of an autoimmune disorder. As the virus spreads unchecked through the body, it drags a destructive immune reaction behind it. Individuals with covid-19 face the same challenge as nations during the pandemic: if they can’t contain small sites of infection early—so that a targeted response can root them out—they end up mounting interventions so large that the shock inflicts its own damage.

The gears of the immune response that come apart in covid-19 were discovered slowly, in a blundering way, as though science itself were recapitulating evolution. In a sense, there are several immune systems. In health, they coördinate with and balance each other. But a machine with so many moving parts is, inevitably, vulnerable.

Immunology as we know it began in earnest in 1882, at the Italian seaside. Ilya Metchnikoff, a Russian zoologist who would later help popularize yogurt in Western Europe, had developed an obsession with digestion, and with the process by which one cell eats another. In his memoir, Metchnikoff described the insight that would define his career. His family had gone to the circus, but he’d stayed home, “observing the life in the mobile cells of a transparent starfish larva” through his microscope. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him:

It struck me that similar cells might serve in the defense of the organism against intruders. Feeling that there was in this something of surpassing interest, I felt so excited that I began striding up and down the room and even went to the seashore in order to collect my thoughts. I said to myself that, if my supposition was true, a splinter introduced into the body of a starfish larva . . . should soon be surrounded by mobile cells.

Metchnikoff immediately performed the experiment, using a thorn from a rosebush in his garden. Sure enough, he saw cells surrounding the foreign body.

At the time, leading biologists, including Louis Pasteur, didn’t think of hosts as actively defending themselves against pathogens. If it was often impossible to get diseases twice, then that was because we became inured to them, like alcoholics to liquor, or because some unknown quantity of illness within us was “used up” as each disease ran its course. Immunology had advanced only haltingly since 1730, when the clergyman Thomas Fuller speculated that each person was born with “Ovula, of various distinct Kinds, productive of all the contagious, venomous Fevers we can possibly have.” According to this theory, an infection was actually an impregnation; each “egg” could be fertilized only once.

Using dyes to distinguish cells under a microscope, Metchnikoff helped show that the body actively defended itself. In fact, specialized cells responded to intruders in a process he described as “phagocytosis,” or cell-eating. One kind of cell-eater, called a “neutrophil”—because it can be stained only by pH-neutral dyes—swarmed to the site of the infection first. Larger cells called “macrophages” followed, absorbing both the invaders and the neutrophils into their “amoeboid protoplasm.” Neutrophils and macrophages, Metchnikoff found, lived in tissues throughout the body—a standing army.

Metchnikoff’s findings were promising: he had uncovered what would become known as “cellular” immunity. At the same time, other researchers seemed to be making progress in an entirely different direction. Emil von Behring and Shibasaburō Kitasato, two biologists working in Berlin, injected guinea pigs, goats, and horses with diphtheria and tetanus toxins. They found that, from the victims’ blood, they could derive “antitoxins” capable of conferring protective immunity on other animals. (Von Behring won the first Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine for this work, in 1901.) It wasn’t clear what these antitoxins, later called “antibodies,” were made of. Still, von Behring and Kitasato had discovered what came to be known as “humoral” immunity, and it had nothing to do with cells eating other cells.

There came to be two camps: the cellularists, aligned with Metchnikoff, and the humoralists, aligned with von Behring. The feud over the origins of immunity was political and cultural as well as scientific. Metchnikoff was working at the Pasteur Institute, in Paris, and his followers, who believed that cell-eating was the basis of immunity, were mostly French. Von Behring’s supporters, who focussed on antibodies, were German. The humoralists won the mainstream in 1897, when a biochemist named Paul Ehrlich published a theory explaining how antibodies might work. In his paper, Ehrlich drew a toxin as an amoeboid blob with small nubs jutting out of it, each differently shaped; the antibodies were like little tadpoles whose mouths sometimes fit exactly onto the nubs. It was these variations in shape, Ehrlich argued, that allowed the antibody system to adapt to new pathogens and cripple them. For the first time, the elusive concept of immunity to specific diseases, so important and yet so poorly understood, felt tangible. “Helped in no small measure by the pictures which Ehrlich published,” Arthur M. Silverstein writes, in “A History of Immunology,” antibodies became “the principal object of interest to almost all immunologists.” Although Ehrlich and Metchnikoff shared a Nobel Prize for their contributions to our understanding of immunity, Ehrlich’s account eclipsed interest in Metchnikoff’s cell-eaters for nearly fifty years.

As biologists grew expert in the distillation of “curative serums,” the great quest in immunology became figuring out how antibodies were made, and how there could be so many kinds. It seemed that a person’s antibody repertoire was limitless: biologists found that the immune system could quickly create antibodies to fit synthetic chemicals never before seen in nature.

For the first half of the twentieth century, the going theory was that the invading element—the “antigen”—served as a template around which a corresponding antibody was molded. Only in 1955 did scientists discover the much stranger truth. It turned out that the cells that produce antibodies—called B cells, because they were first discovered in the bursa of Fabricius, an organ that does for birds what bone marrow does for humans—can produce only one kind each. Its structure is random, and nearly every B cell is discarded unused. If, however, an antibody created by a B cell happens to match some part of an antigen, that B cell will not just survive but clone itself. The clone incorporates many mutations, which offer the possibility of an even better match. After a few generations, an antibody with the best fit is “constructed” through a process of mini-evolution that occurs continuously in our lymph nodes and spleen. (Our ancestors the bony fish adapted the machinery of the B-cell system from an even more ancient parasite.)

The vividness of this picture—a weapons factory deep in our bodies, working on the principles of Darwinian selection—further etched the formula “immunity equals antibodies” into the biological imagination. And yet problems remained that only the cellularists could solve. During the Second World War, severe burns treated with donor skin grafts became more common. But the donor skin was often rejected by the body. When scientists examined the site of a rejected graft, they didn’t find antibodies. Instead, they saw swarms of a previously unknown kind of immune cell. Later, the attacking cells were shown to come from the thymus, a small, spongy organ, then thought to be vestigial, that straddled the esophagus. They were named T cells as a result, and became an object of fascination. T cells were incredibly destructive but somehow selective. They knew the difference between self and other.

The balance between protection and self-destruction had always been a theme in immunology. Since Ehrlich’s time, allergies had been seen as a misdirected immune response; in the nineteen-forties, scientists learned that certain precious parts of the body—the eyes, the reproductive organs, the brain—are actually walled off from much of the immune system. (Ehrlich himself discovered the “blood-brain barrier,” a mesh too fine for phagocytes and even tiny antibodies to penetrate.) Now the question of how the body distinguished between foreign and domestic tissue focussed itself on skin grafts and T cells.

Earlier, in mice, researchers had identified genes that affected the success of organ transplants: they called this collection of genes the major histocompatibility complex, or MHC, from the Greek histos, for “tissue.” In the sixties, a human version of the MHC was found. The genes turned out to be a blueprint for a remarkable system designed to distinguish self from non-self. Fragments of proteins built inside our cells are loaded onto tiny molecular rafts, which ferry them to the cell surface for inspection by T cells. Meanwhile, in the thymus, T cells are trained as inspectors: they are presented with rafts containing protein fragments, some of which are natural to the body. Any T cell that ignores its raft, or that goes on the attack in response to self-generated fragments, is destroyed. Competent inspectors are set loose to search for foreign material. They look for cells that display unfamiliar protein parts in their rafts and kill them.

This is how skin grafts are detected and rejected; how incipient cancers are disposed of; how cells that have been co-opted by viruses are rooted out. Together, B cells and T cells allow the human immune system to update itself as fast as our cells can replicate. But their power comes with risks. The immune system’s adaptive weapons aren’t always precise. Allergies affect somewhere between ten and forty per cent of the global population; as many as four per cent of people suffer from debilitating autoimmune diseases. And parasites could find ways to hack the system. “The invention of acquired immunity was like escalating a war with an omnipotent opponent,” Hedrick, who is a T-cell expert, writes. Our new weapons could be turned against us.

By the late eighties, it no longer made sense to contrast cellularists and humoralists. They had both been right; it was just that they saw different parts of the immune system depending on where and when they looked. Phagocytes were often present at the moment of infection. Antibodies in the blood, which could take days to emerge, pursued invaders outside the body’s cells, while T cells used MHC to peer inside those cells, destroying the ones that had been infected by viruses or corrupted by cancer.

Still, mysteries remained. At a 1989 symposium, the immunologist Charles Janeway described what he called the field’s “dirty little secret”: a vaccine containing an antigen designed to elicit antibodies wouldn’t work unless an extra irritant, or “adjuvant”—usually a harmless chemical or bacterium—had been added. Why wasn’t the antigen enough to jump-start the creation of antibodies? “To be quite honest, the answer is not known,” Janeway said. His suspicion, though, was that the process couldn’t begin unless the innate immune system—with its interferons, cytokines, and epithelial cells—had sounded its alarms first. Without marching orders, the standing army remained on call.

An innate system has to anticipate its enemies—a seemingly impossible task, given their stupendous variety. It wasn’t until around 1997 that Janeway began to understand how such anticipation might be accomplished. About a decade earlier, a pair of biologists named Christiane Nüsslein-Volhard and Eric F. Wieschaus had found a gene that affected development in fruit flies. Nüsslein-Volhard had called it Toll, using the German word for “great.” (“Das ist ja toll! ” she exclaimed, upon making the discovery.) Another scientist, Jules A. Hoffmann, learned that the same gene was involved in the fruit-fly immune response; Janeway, with the help of Ruslan Medzhitov, showed that a version of it was also present in humans, and employed in some of the white blood cells that are the innate immune system’s first responders. Through experiments with human cells, they showed that the gene coded for what came to be called a “Toll-like receptor,” which could recognize a particular molecular motif—a building block of bacterial membranes. It was as if evolution had noticed that, while many cells built their houses out of oak or brick, dangerous bacteria always seemed to use pinewood. Why not make a pine detector?

Immunologists soon discovered a second Toll-like receptor, then a third; they started giving them names like TLR4 and TLR5. Whole new families of “pattern-recognition receptors” were found. Each receptor, ingenious in its design, recognized some characteristic microbial or viral signature—a kink in a virus’s RNA, a crenellation in a microbial cell wall.

At long last, a picture of the whole system was coming into focus. It was all interconnected. Innate immunity kicks off the immune response, as cells at the site of infection use their receptors to recognize and combat invaders, and release interferons and cytokines to raise the alarm. Various types of white blood cells respond, having been routed to the infection via the bloodstream. They identify and eat foreign cells, returning the digested bits, via the lymph nodes, to the thymus and the bone marrow, as intel. In the days that follow, antibodies and killer T cells—the weapons of adaptive immunity—are built to spec. Everything plays a double or triple role. Antibodies, for instance, don’t just attach to invaders to block their entry into cells; they also tag them so that they’ll be easier for white blood cells to find and eat. The innate and adaptive arms ramp up each other’s destructive abilities.

Here, again, Hedrick sounds a cautious note. “Such a scheme should worry any systems analyst,” he writes. “A potentially lethal mechanism controlled by positive feedback is a recipe for runaway destruction.”

In late March, a thirty-two-year-old man of Dutch ancestry was admitted to a hospital in the Netherlands. He had difficulty breathing, and a CT scan showed an opaque haze spreading in his lungs. He was given a diagnosis of covid-19, and spent sixteen days in intensive care; four days after he was moved out of the I.C.U., one of his lungs collapsed. He recovered enough to be sent home nine days later. His twenty-nine-year-old brother, who lived in a different house, got sick at roughly the same time, and died. Their parents had moderate symptoms.

When scientists learned that a second pair of young brothers—twenty-one and twenty-three years old, of African ancestry—had also had severe cases of covid-19, they sought to study all four men. By sequencing the genomes of the men and their parents, the researchers hoped to find an anomaly that might explain why some young people, particularly men, had such bad outcomes.

The Dutch team found something that echoed tenOever’s theory about the way in which sars-CoV-2 rewires the cellular alarm system. The four men all had an ineffective variant of TLR7, a Toll-like receptor that recognizes viral RNA. When it works, TLR7 helps produce interferons, which tell nearby cells to increase their antiviral efforts. When it doesn’t, the alarm is silent, and the infection spreads. This genetic abnormality had made the virus’s work dramatically easier. The raiders had come to an unlocked house.

This spring, a clinical trial in the U.K. gave interferon-beta, a synthetic version of the molecule, to a random selection of a hundred and one patients hospitalized with covid-19. The trial found that those who received interferon early in their infection were seventy-nine per cent less likely to become seriously ill. Researchers agree that timing is crucial. In the early days of a coronavirus infection, an interferon boost might help your innate immune system contain the virus. Later, though, it might be harmful; at that point, your adaptive immune system could already be out of control, and you might need an immunosuppressant, such as the steroid dexamethasone. (Last month, President Trump received dexamethasone as part of his treatment for covid-19; he was also given a drug that contained lab-engineered antibodies capable of fighting the virus alongside, or ahead of, his body’s own adaptive response.)

The genes for TLR7 are on the sex-linked X chromosome. That could be a partial explanation for why men suffer from severe covid-19 more often than women. But a TLR7 deficiency is likely to be rare—far rarer than the incidence of severe covid-19 among young people. There are almost certainly other genetic or environmental factors that weaken the interferon response. In mid-September, research published in Science showed that some covid-19 patients with bad outcomes had “autoantibodies” that were attacking their own interferon; another article published in the same issue outlined a genetic flaw related to TLR3, which is also involved in the interferon response. (As many as fourteen per cent of severe covid-19 cases may be attributable to one of these two conditions.) The more researchers study our immune response to the virus, the more complexity they find. According to some theories, how things go for you could depend on how many viral particles you’ve inhaled, and on whether they reach your lungs when you breathe them in. If you’ve had a cold recently, it’s possible that the T cells you developed to fight it could partially fit the coronavirus. Vitamin D levels might matter, because Vitamin D can help control inflammation. Harmful autoantibodies could be responsible for the persistent symptoms suffered by covid-19 “long-haulers.” All of this is still being explored.

The immune system uses feedback to stay balanced, like a gymnast on a beam. If a light breeze blows, the gymnast might sway a bit; sensing this, she’ll shift her weight to return to center. But, given a strong enough push, she’s prone to overshoot with her reaction and, from the other side, overshoot again until she falls. Many factors contribute to the slip—a tight hip flexor, a strained calf, moisture in the air—each magnifying the force of the shove.

Older gymnasts tend to be less agile. The same goes for the immune system, which is why covid-19 disproportionately affects the elderly. The already high case fatality rate for sixty-five- to seventy-four-year-olds more than triples in people seventy-five and older. This age distribution is unique to the coronavirus. Kids are more susceptible to the seasonal flu; children and young adults who had the swine flu in 2009 were hospitalized the most, while the pandemic flu of 1918 hit adults in their twenties and thirties the hardest. (Perhaps their immune systems overreacted, or older people had acquired immunity to similar strains.) “The difference of risk and profile, young versus old—I don’t think anyone has seen an infectious agent behave quite like this before,” Richard Hodes, the director of the National Institute on Aging, part of the National Institutes of Health, said, of the coronavirus.

The lopsidedness of the virus means that vaccines might not be as effective in older patients, even with double the dose, or after repeated inoculations. The beauty of a vaccine is that it relieves us of the task of completely understanding the virus; its package of antigens simply presses the On button of the great machine. Helping older people may require a more fine-tuned approach, tailored to the particular way this virus destabilizes the immune system. What we have learned so far suggests that it isn’t just that being older makes you weak, and that covid-19 preys on this weakness; the disease’s mechanism of action is actually amplified in the aging body.

For this reason, about a month after beginning their coronavirus investigations, the researchers in tenOever’s lab switched from ferrets to hamsters. Ferret immune systems are highly responsive, and the animals were getting better too quickly. “They look a lot more like kids,” tenOever said. By contrast, some hamsters, when infected with the virus, “actually develop respiratory distress. We see a lot more infiltration in their lungs.” In older hamsters, as in older people, innate immunity is less likely to contain the virus and adaptive immunity is slower to turn on and off. The hamster ends up wildly dysregulated. “The difference between these two outcomes really comes down to, as you get older—” TenOever paused. “Getting older sucks. Everything breaks down, even at the simplest of levels.”

As we age, our immune systems stiffen up. “If I had to respond to an insult—bacteria, a virus, a trauma, a lesion—the response is slower and is less strong,” Luigi Ferrucci, who studies the aging process and the immune system at the National Institute on Aging, told me. But, at the same time, the system becomes chronically activated. Cytokines circulate at a constant, high level in the blood, as though the body were at all times responding to some attack. This is true no matter one’s health. “Even in individuals that are extremely healthy, extremely well nourished, have no disease, and they’re taking no drugs, there are some inflammatory markers whose concentration increases with aging,” Ferrucci said. Think of the welt that rises with a bite, then imagine the same process—swelling, redness, stiffness, the accumulation of pus—slowly pervading the body. Your level of inflammation contributes to your “biological” age—which is not always in perfect lockstep with your chronological age—and increases your risk of developing cardiovascular disease, cancer, and dementia; it contributes to what geriatricians call “frailty.”

A phenomenon known as cellular senescence is partly responsible for the body’s increasing inflammation through time. As cells age and divide, small errors accrete in their DNA. These errors could lead to cancer, among other maladies. And so cells police themselves. When they detect decay in their DNA, they stop replicating and begin emitting cytokines, as though asking the immune system to inspect and destroy them. The accumulation of senescent cells may contribute to severe covid-19: according to the current theory, Ferrucci said, they could “expand tremendously the cytokine storm,” in which a runaway feedback loop leads to a sudden spike in inflammation throughout the body.

Adaptive immunity suffers with age, too, but for different reasons. The thymus itself atrophies. (On a restaurant menu, thymuses are called sweetbreads. “Sweetbreads come from young calves,” Hedrick told me. “If you were to try to harvest the thymus from an old bull, you’d get . . . nothing.”) When you’re young, with a short history of exposure to pathogens, your thymus produces new T cells at an extravagant rate. But as you age production slows, and the cells differentiate. Some live indefinitely as “memory T cells,” carrying with them a record of their defeated foes.

Certain viruses use up more T-cell memory than others. Around twenty per cent of an older adult’s T-cell repertoire is devoted to fighting a single virus: human cytomegalovirus (HCMV), a strain of herpes that usually has no symptoms. It would be ironic if, in some small way, HCMV makes it harder to survive covid-19. Unlike sars-CoV-2, which spreads without hiding and so causes extensive damage, HCMV is a master of disguise. When infecting a cell, the virus turns off that cell’s MHC system. No cellular raft delivers evidence of the infection to the surface. Still, this isn’t enough to avoid detection. Our immune system has invented a weapon, the “natural killer” cell, that looks specifically for cells without functioning MHC systems. And so HCMV evolved to create a decoy MHC raft, designed to fool the natural killers.

As a parasite, HCMV is almost perfectly adapted to its host; able to spread without attracting attention, it does nothing but consume resources. The thymus is one place where such cleverness leaves its trace. The practice of science is another. Many of the workhorse tools employed by molecular biologists—including the enzymes used by tenOever’s team to sequence RNA, and the crispr gene-editing system, perhaps the most important scientific discovery of our time—were once either weapons or defenses in the microbial arms race. It’s there, at the crucible of life and death, that biological innovation happens fastest, leaving us with technology for mounting a new kind of defense.

The last time I spoke to tenOever, in late July, his team had begun a search for treatments. In the BSL-3 lab, Møller was infecting hamsters; the plan was to give the animals candidate drugs, sequencing their RNA through the entire process of infection and treatment. By examining patterns in the data, the team could find out which drugs were better at undoing the coronavirus’s reprogramming. TenOever made use of a handy way of visualizing what was happening in the cells. He could turn the genetic analysis into an inkblot-like map, showing which parts of its genome each cell was activating. “You can build a landscape, if you will,” tenOever said. If the coronavirus shifted the landscape to the northeast, they would look for drugs that pulled it southwest. They were testing four good candidates a week like this.

It was an impressionistic way to look at an immune system. But the system was not designed to be legible; it was, of course, not designed at all. For years, Robert Jack, one of the authors of “Evolutionary Concepts in Immunology,” taught a class on immunology to students just beginning their Ph.D.s. Bright and enthusiastic, the students struggled to untangle the immune system’s feedback loops. Jack told me, “We tend to look at these systems and say, ‘Wow, who would have thought of that? That’s incredible. That’s so fantastic. It does this incredibly complicated job, and it does it really well!’ ” He took a breath, then continued. “Whereas, in reality, the immune system has simply, in the face of pathogen attack, staggered from one emergency to the next. It just uses whatever is lying around. It is hoping against all possibilities to try to survive a little bit longer. Whatever crazy solution it comes up with—so long as it works, it will be accepted.” The result is a system of great flexibility and power, which, pushed the right way, can be made to collapse upon itself. ♦

#covid19 #newyorker #tldr #health

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geneseoabroad · 4 years

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Dakar, Senegal - Yvonne

1) Why did you decide to Study Abroad? Specifically, what made you choose to go to Senegal?

I heard about the program from the professor who ran the program, Dr. Adabra, my first-year at Geneseo. As a first-year, I had just started to experience life on my own and recognized the potential that I had to change the course of my future. This program piqued my interest because no one had ever talked to me about travelling to Senegal, much less any other African country, before. I was thoroughly intrigued to learn first-hand what it seemed like the world around me had been missing. I had never left the country before and this sounded like the perfect opportunity for me to carpe diem.

2) What was your favorite part about Senegal?

Mangoes! The mangoes in Senegal are so much better than anything we buy in stores here. I miss eating them like apples at the beach, and eating them at home with my little sisters as we laughed about the golden juice running down our arms. They were so good and they just made the sweet times sweeter.

3) Describe a day in the life of a student in Senegal?

After getting ready for the day, which included making sure I had a full water bottle and sunscreen on, I’d go downstairs and have bread, coffee and some fruit for breakfast. A lot of times I ate breakfast alone because of Ramadan. It was a peaceful start to my day where I’d listen to the people bustling outside my home’s walls or to prayers being sung at the neighborhood’s mosque. Before I left for class, I made sure to thank my mama for her hospitality and wish her a good day.

The other students and I had a meeting place in our neighborhood where we’d convene to walk to WARC (West African Research Center) together. The 25 minute walk to class didn’t seem so long because there were many things to see: stray cats, horses pulling carts, people in taxi cabs going who knows where, fruit vendors, the many fantastic styles of clothes in brightly colored patterns, etc. At WARC we’d have class for 2.5 hours and discuss our daily lives while in Senegal, and have lectures that were pertinent to the culture we were currently immersed in.

We were released from class around noon and had the rest of the day free to ourselves. Sometimes the other students and I would get gelato, or go to the market to buy souvenirs, but most of the time I would stay at home to play with my little sisters and brother.

Dinner was around 8pm. I’d help set up the chairs at which we sat, gathered around the large platter of food. Over rice and fish, or potatoes and chicken and salad, we’d discuss the news on TV and talk about our days.

Dakar at night

4) What were your accommodations like?

My host family lived in a building with two floors with an open-air atrium in the middle. I loved this space because it connected all the other rooms. I spent a lot of time doing homework there so that whenever someone would pass through, they knew I was available to hang out.

5) What is one thing you wish you could have done differently?

I wish I had connected more with the adults in my host family more. Although I was very close with the younger kids (they are the little sisters and brother I never had), I found it hard to have an in depth conversation with the adults. I could tell my mama and papa had a lot of wisdom to share, but I never knew how to start that conversation.

6) What did you enjoy doing in your free time?

Swimming at the beach. Being in the rhythmic waves was like meditation. The ocean brought me a great sense of joy and peace. It was also a really easy way to wash off mango juice! I also really enjoyed going to the tailor to have a traditional dress made for me, from scratch.

Oh, and ATV-ing over sand dunes!

7) Did you do any traveling while abroad? Where?

Yes! Part of the program was built-in weekend trips. This allowed us to visit different cities along the coast of Senegal. This in turn gave us a chance to see a less metropolitan side of Senegal. We visited the historical slave trade island of Goree, the village hidden in the mangroves near Toubacouta, and the artistic paradise of Toubab Dialaw.

On Gorée Island

L’Engouement in Toubab Dialaw

8) What is one thing that anyone interested in going to Senegal should know?

The fish is delicious! It is a staple as Senegal borders the Atlantic Ocean and has a thriving fish market. This being said, if you don’t like fish, a popular dish is yassa-poulet. This meal is a very tasty roasted chicken with a delicious onion sauce.

9) What was something you didn’t expect to experience while abroad in Senegal?

When I went to Senegal, I became part of a community. Despite being part of a minority group, I felt like I blended in. In the United States, we pride ourselves on individuality and work to further our personal gain. In Senegal, I found that individuality existed, but less prominently. There was a connectedness and community between all Senegalese. This community helps to promote everyone’s well-being. In certain cases, one’s challenge is not hidden, but shared so that others can be supported and aided.

10) How has studying abroad impacted your life?

Traveling to Senegal has made me more in tune with myself. I’ve learned how to walk slowly and live in the moment, how meaningful a small conversation in passing is, how important it is to disconnect from the internet to be present with the people around me, and most of all to be honest and trusting with the people around me.

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isolctions · 5 years

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▌real name: zephyr warren brigham — a middle name that she actually despises after learning her mother was going to name her ‘warren’ if she was a boy. so fuck her. ▌single or taken: subject to change depending on the vibes, but permanently she’s engaged to @blackplanct‘s maliq azad. ▌abilities or powers: this bitch can’t do shit. ▌eye color: dark brown. ▌hair color: she wears as assortment of wigs with an array of colors, but naturally her hair is a very light brown. ▌family members: whew, okay. her family’s kinda fucked up. paigon (pay-zee-ohn, in case anyone was looking at her name like what the fuck is that ghetto ass shit) reed is allegedly her mother, if mothers are allowed to be literal pieces of shit (antonique smith). dion brigham is her formerly estranged father (khalil cain). tristan brigham is her aunt, and her guardian since the age of fifteen (tia mowry). tinnia brigham-mayfield is her other aunt, tristan’s twin sister, and Not the fun aunt (tamera mowry). eamonn brigham is her uncle who is surprisingly only three years older than her (tahj mowry). a shit ton of cousins on her father’s side that she either doesn’t remember or doesn’t care to know, two aunts and some family members on her mother’s side that she definitely doesn’t want to know. unknown to her, she has an eight year old half-sister named lisa reed-perez. ▌pets: claims her aunt’s cat named alex. shares two cats named munch & baby with maliq. ▌something they don’t like: her mother. but, she also doesn’t like people that overshare. she’s very turned off by sudden contact, and doesn’t warm up to people immediately unless they’re really interesting, so people talking zephyr’s ear off and treating her like family that she’s just met like five minutes ago really bothers her. she also doesn’t like being emotional, and abandonment is a pretty traumatic topic for her. ▌hobbies/activities: online shopping, eating hot wings, and being a bitch. but artistically, she’s really good at making and producing beats and her own songs — zephyr actually taught herself how to make beats as a coping mechanism after suffering a miscarriage at nineteen, and eventually taught herself to rap and eventually sing. however, getting her to be committed to this hobby and release material? i think the fuck not. she prefers vibing. ▌ever hurt anyone before: emotionally and physically, yes. zephyr has been in multiple fights before with multiple people and multiple genders, and she’s very aggressive and tends to win majority of her fights. but, as mentioned earlier, she’s also a bitch and has hurt feelings before, intentionally or otherwise. ▌ever killed anyone before: no! she’s a bitch, not a monster. ▌animal that represents them: a bodega cat. just chilling, unbothered, surrounded by food. ▌worst habits: she’s very emotionally closed off. so getting her to open up, specifically about her family or her life while living in chicago, is basically an uphill battle and she’s not very nice about it. she’s also very self deprecating, and is prone to suicidal ideation when her depression is on high. but in general, she’s very aggressive so if she feels trapped by something, she can resort to foul language and violence. and really, she holds grudges like her life depends on it, so forgiving her father probably took up all free chances of her getting over things. she holds onto the things that hurt her, even if it’s detrimental to her health. ▌role models: honestly...none. but her aunt tristan really seems to have her shit together, so that was really her only positive familial role model during her teen years. it hits her harder much later in life, after realizing that a woman only ten years older than she was had been made to raise her depressed brother’s out of control daughter while struggling to keep and maintain a business during a recession in brooklyn and love her as if she were her own. ▌sexual orientation: demisexual. ▌thoughts on marriage/kids: at first, zephyr was really shifty about having kids, especially since her upbringing wasn’t the greatest. her father worked nonstop to support her and her mother after barely finishing senior year due to her birth, while her mother was an addict who very openly cheated on her father and treated zephyr like shit (see: calling her own daughter a whore, wishing she’d never been born, blowing smoke in her face, etc.). after being abandoned by paigon, her father fell into such a deep depression that he kinda stopped noticing zeph — and self aware of her own shit, she never wanted to put a child through that. it only worsened after miscarrying during her first accidental pregnancy and her then boyfriend leaving her. she had her objections on marriage as well, because she’s not the marrying type and while her mother was terrible, her words had an affect on her. she wasn’t worthy of a man loving her. of course, now? she’s the mother of two daughters, and engaged to be married to a man that adores and supports the fuck outta her, and loved her when she needed it the most. so, that’s that. ▌fears: abandonment, above all. also, heights are pretty terrifying. and spiders. and being broke. ▌style preferences: visually, it’s very much on par with that of her faceclaims. she doesn’t follow any particular trend, and couldn’t give a shit about what people think of her outfit choices. she enjoys bright colors, faux furs, and very gaudy clothing, and really kinda adjusts her clothing based on either her mood for the day or what wig she chooses to wear. her choice in clothing is also considered eccentric, but falls into the category of urban streetwear or even a sort of afro-futuristic or punk vibe. basically, she wears whatever makes her comfortable and makes her feel pretty, and given her curvy stature, she has to get a lot of things custom made or adjusted by tailor cause babes got thicc thighs and hips and tummy pouches and rolls. ▌someone they love: first and foremost, her aunts tristan and tinnia — without then, she essentially would either end up killed in a fight or in jail...due to a fight. she also loves her fiance maliq unconditionally (but she will deny every word of that and there are indeed conditions), otherwise they wouldn’t be such an iconic couple. she loves her best friends, which are only a handful, but she prioritizes time spent with @armsdealing‘s jerome kendricks & marcelo reyes, as well as @saturnrang‘s jasmine higgins because they essentially egg on her chaotic energy. it was a long time coming, but she loves her father very much. and lastly, she loves her daughters sola & sinead azad, because they’re truly the best things to ever come out of her. ▌approach to friendships: very hard to say. it really depends on the circumstances behind meeting a person — she doesn’t make friends at work because that’s just weird. if she meets someone during an outing with mutual friends or otherwise, and if food and alcohol are involved, she’s a little warmed up to conversation after indulging in either. she’s not exactly awkward as a person, but instead pretty stand-offish, and can come off as either intimidating or simply uninterested unless they happen to share some personality traits. and in friendships, she’s not responsible whatsoever. it doesn’t matter if she’s the oldest, she’s immature and whiny. and a bitch. and a little messy. but when she does make friends, she’s the sweetest and most reliable there is — and in return, you get to be apart of her little family! hers is pretty messed up, so any friendship she has is considered a found family in her book. ▌thoughts on pie: sweet potato or blueberry. ▌favorite drink: she likes teas and cold pressed juices, and will sometimes indulge in a fancy cappuccino or frappe. will only drink water if it’s fruit infused because she’s a child. very big fan of milkshakes and smoothies. keep her away from hennessy, d’uesse, tequila...basically anything with alcohol unless you want her to act a goddamn fool. ▌favorite place to spend time at: her aunt’s flower shop. somehow, flower arranging brought a lot of control in her life as well, so she essentially spends all of her time there due to work and being around tris. she likes being anywhere with maliq, until he does something weird. other than that, she’s comfortable anywhere where there’s food. ▌swim in the lake or in the ocean: zephyr doesn’t swim — she’s the kinda girl who puts on a cute bikini just to sit and take pictures by the water. she may even get her feet a little wet here and there, but she actually doesn’t know how to swim. ▌their type: i gotta say, it’s pretty difficult to describe considering she’s up her fiance’s ass so much that i can’t imagine what it is — mainly because maliq is not her type. at all. she’s into articulate, well-spoken, fresh smelling, hood ass dope dealers essentially. but she also likes people who are creative and enjoys being in their element, people with drive and ambition and actual goals, people who are open minded and vocal about things that they want, and although she’s pretty shitty at it herself, someone who’s first instinct is to communicate when things go wrong instead of reacting in anger. also anyone who’s sexually open to exploring things and can make her cum multiple times.

tagged by: @armsdealing tagging: myself. steal + tag me in it!

#zephyr — meme #zephyr — facts #pregnancy tw #miscarriage tw #shitty parent tw #suicide mention tw #i am very Fast.

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hangonimevolving · 4 years

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Inside Out and Upside Downs

Hi all. Thought I’d update on various and sundry agenda items going on in my life. Never a dull moment ‘round here.

HEALTH

Firstly, let’s talk about my innards. There’s been a whole lot of activity going on with regard to my innards of late. Thanks to the excitement of my Disney flu adventure and my New Years ICU party, I am now the subject of a great deal of medical speculation and attention, from a variety of parties. I have a standing weekly blood draw and appointment on Thursdays with my hematologist (fancy word for blood doctor) to monitor my platelet levels, and other misc blood-related information that concerns immunoglobulins and weird, mysterious things like that. I have had two appointments, as well as a momma-jomma lab workup, with a rheumatologist (fancy word for doctor who specializes in autoimmune issues). I’ve had an appointment to set up care with a brand-new-to-me primary care physician. And in the middle of all of this, I decided that since I’m going to be in/around the hospital so frequently, I might as well do a short course of physical therapy for my ankle - I never got around to doing it, so now is the time. So that’s a recurring weekly appointment on Tuesdays. I’ve also got random other crap, like a random head MRI happening tomorrow, and I’m sure there will be random tests, scans, and studies that random doctors will order at random times, and I’ll have to fit it into the schedule. I am being thoroughly examined, inside out. And with all of these medical opinions, appointments, tests and what not - in the last 24 days, there has been NO concrete diagnosis or evidence about why this whole thing actually happened. There are several theories, the two most likely of which are a) I have an autoimmune disorder. Well, we already know I have one autoimmune disorder (a not-so-bad one, called Graves Disease/hyperthyroidism, which I was first diagnosed with in 2006, and which involves your own body perceiving your own thyroid gland as a foreign object, and attacking it with antibodies). But now there is some evidence that I may have a second one, possibly a more problematic one, that is causing my immune system to overreact to normal viruses and things, and go on self-destructive rampages against my own platelets. Dumbass immune system. Now, what IS this second autoimmune disorder? THAT we don’t know. Because, the rheumatologist ran that momma-jomma test I was telling you about, and all that showed up is this one value called a positive ANA test which indicated “daaamn, there’s something f%^ed going on in this lady’s immune system!” It was a very high positive result. But, the specific tests to identify antibodies for known issues like lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, etc. were all negative at this time. So. To be continued with that whole theory.....

Then there is theory #2, which is b) maybe this whole thing really WAS just the flu. Maybe the strain of virus I got was really bad, and it resulted in such a pronounced war that it just took a toll. Dunno.

Anyway. We’ll obviously be following this medical mystery with my innards closely the next few weeks. Oh, and one more thing: so my platelet levels are sorta trending down. At hospital discharge, I was at like 313K, then the next week it was like 250K, then 180K, and yesterday, 146K. They’re going to keep monitoring, and the hope is that the downtrend will plateau at some point (preferably above 30K), and then it will start to climb up when my own bone marrow gets its shit together and starts producing new platelets. If that doesn’t happen - I’m looking at more IVIG infusion treatments. So let’s see how it all goes down.

WORK

A second area of activity has been my job! The spring semester at Uuuu! started on January 13, and I am teaching two courses this time around, for the first time since 2016. I am teaching my studio dance course, per usual, but I also agreed to a late plea for help from my former department to teach a lecture/discussion course that I’ve taught jillions of times before, but haven’t done in about four years. It feels good to be back in classroom teaching mode. The course meets three times a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. So I’m quite busy, leaving the house around 8 am to drop the kids off at school, then getting back behind the wheel and making the hour-long drive to campus, arriving by about 9:30 am and teaching my two courses back to back. I have a big huge hike between my classes too, because they’re on opposite sides of campus, so by the time I’m done teaching, it’s about 12:20 and then I have this big long hike back to my car, then the drive back home, and I arrive around 1:30 pm. I grab a bite to eat, then at 2:45 its time to get the kids. Then three days a week, they have their extracurricular activities after school, so I’m shuttling them to those things. Then Tuesdays and Thursdays, all my medical appointments, which have been taking the majority of my mornings and early afternoons. Phew! This is all a far cry from about a year ago, when I had several mornings a week to go for a long run, either in my neighborhood or at the local state park, and I was training intensely twice a week with my Spartan SGX coach. I’ve had to seriously curtail my working out - I took a spill on my first run following the hospitalization, and the entire family freaked out about my putting myself at a bleed risk if I were to fall, bump myself, or otherwise get an injury, even a minor one, while exercising. This has been a huge crimp in my style, not working out - and if I weren't so busy with teaching, I think it would seriously depress me. But I keep telling myself its only temporary, and soon we’ll have some answers to my situation, and I”ll be able to get back into it. Till then, I’m trying to get back into meal prep and eating clean, and doing some mild exercise like light jogs and walks, light weight training, etc.

ADULTING

My mention of weight training is perhaps a segue to this next update, which I’ll keep brief and annoyingly vague. I am going through some painful adulting right now, that makes some moments feel like I’m being swallowed up by a tsunami. I’m gonna survive... but, yeah. I’m wading in the flood right now.

Okay, now for some miscellaneous updates. Mainly so I can post some pictures. This has been very text-heavy for my tastes.

MISC

On the topic of clean eating..... did you know that both papaya and pomegranate are natural platelet boosters? Supposedly. I’ve been doing a lot of research on foods and other natural ways to help boost my platelet production, and these were the top two foods that were consistently mentioned on platelet disorders blogs and forums. I confess I’m not a big fan of these fruits - but I’ve tried to put my tastebuds aside, and incorporate them into every day. Happily, papayas are widely available in the Miami area year-round.

I’ve handled the pomegranate thing by buying 100% pomegranate juice, and making cocktails of pomegranate + papaya juice (which is papaya pulp mixed in pear juice).

On the topic of foods and eating well - here is my guilty indulgence of late. I ADOOOOORE ramen bowls. ADORE. And I know they are the opposite of low-carb and healthy.... but I have been making a ton of them at home lately. I try to make them as healthy as I can, by 1) only using half of the ramen spice packet that comes with the noodles - this cuts the sodium to a tolerable amount (plus I drink lots of water), 2) I sautée minced garlic + approximately one full cup of shiitake mushrooms + approximately 1.5 full cups of baby spinach leaves in a dash of olive oil, and add to every bowl I make (mushrooms are full of B-vitamins and, alongside garlic, are huge immunity boosters, and spinach is full of iron and calcium, and is a good thing for me to be eating to make my blood sort itself out) , and 3) I often either crack an egg over the entire boiling mixture right at the end, or I add in sliced hard-boiled egg for extra folate and protein. And I sometimes add in a handful of raw shredded carrots right at the end, for a little crunch, color, fiber, and beta carotene. I *think* that I’m doing my best to make this indulgence food a little healthier, and tailored to my specific medical situation.

Soup has been a huge craving of late, because we had a surprising cold spell in Miami. It got down to 39F day before yesterday! That’s probably the coldest its ever been since we moved to Florida.

Afternoon snuggle time was especially snuggly - Dey and I were huddled for warmth!

My ability to run and work out at a high intensity may be somewhat muted at the moment, and this has been sort of a hard mental adjustment for me. But I am trying to get outside and do things, because it makes me feel better, and also I imagine the vitamin D is good for me. The other day, I was feeling pretty dumpy and blah - so I did something that for some reason I’d been putting off, “saving” for a special occasion, whatever. I cut the tags off of a brand-new Spartan licensed active top that I’d purchased on Cyber Monday, put it on, and went for a light 2-mile jog in the neighborhood. I felt silly in a way of making a big thing of it in my head - but the truth is, it lifted my spirits.

What else... Oh, this was exciting! GUESS WHAT, dudes. On Monday, I saw a real live MANATEE in the lake behind our house! I could hardly believe my eyes. A neighbor had reported on our community WhatsApp group just the day before seeing a manatee from her backyard. She posted a picture of it, which I am shamelessly going to post here. The manatee I saw, about 24 hours later, was different - it was considerably smaller than this one, I think probably a juvenile (not quite a baby, but definitely not humongous like this one). But it was swimming slowly near the sea wall that abuts our backyard, munching on some sea grass just like this big manatee. I did my best to run into the house and call the kids to come out as quietly as they could to see it - I think they caught a tiny glimpse, but our footsteps must have spooked it, because it definitely swam away quickly. I hope we’ll see it again!

Photographic evidence that we are LEGIT Floridians who hang out with manatees :)

Last but not least - on the topic of water creatures, gotta give a shout-out to my Vev, who “leveled up” at his swimming lessons this week to Junior Swim Team! The swim school has about 10 levels through which kids have to work to get to this point, and in the last ~18 months, Vev has completed them all. I was somewhat nostalgic and verklempt when he got his ribbon this time - I feel like it was only yesterday that we took him to swimming school for the first time, where he screamed bloody murder and cried the entire duration of his 25 minute assessment, clinging desperately to his teacher and feeling panicky about letting go in the water. How far he’s come!

(by the way, Dey is also doing wonderfully at swimming, and is only like 1.5 levels away from his own Junior Swim Team ribbon).

So some of my life is inside out and upside down right now, it is true. But some of it is Upside-Up. I work hard EVERY day to focus on the Upside-Up, and what a treat it is to see. These kids, the sunshine I get to enjoy here, the afternoon snuggle times, delicious food that also is good for me.... net balance is that life is good, I’m still alive and kicking, and everything is gonna work out fine.

Toodles!

#fitness #platelets #Sickness #Vev #Dey #food #animals

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